


Queen of Monsters

by VidalinaV



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Post-ACOFAS, at first and then more places, different POV, everyone eventually - Freeform, illyrian war camp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:42:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23605510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VidalinaV/pseuds/VidalinaV
Summary: Her father once said Nesta had seen the whole world before she’d took her first breath, and she carried it all in her lungs. He said, it was why she could scream the loudest, why even in her silence he could hear her cries. It was so, so easy to feel the world rattle in her chest when she had carried universes in her throat and her father had fed her dreams...A multi-chapter preliminary ACOSF fic or rather Nesta going to the Illyrian camp and everything after.Chapter 7 posted. Next update...
Relationships: Amren/Varian (ACoTaR), Elain Archeron/Azriel, Elain Archeron/Lucien Vanserra, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 31
Kudos: 118





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Billie Eilish’s song “When I was older”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I had written and posted this already, but I struggled so hard to write the next few chapters that I figured out it was probably because of what I established in these first few. So I scrapped those and wrote it again and it’s entirely better. A good amount of different to re-post as opposed to just going back and fixing it. 
> 
> So if you have read this once already, well it’s better now. If you haven’t read it at all: welcome!

Her father once said Nesta had seen the whole world before she’d took her first breath, and she carried it all in her lungs. He said, it was why she could scream the loudest, why even in her silence he could hear her cries. It was so, so easy to feel the world rattle in her chest when she had carried universes in her throat and her father had fed her dreams.

Nesta had been so full of them as she grew. One minute a gasping toddler who yearned for stories about the worlds beyond, the next a young female who couldn’t even begin to understand her own. His stories even now floated through her imagination. Past the morning beams of a winter skyline. As quiet as the waking trees.

But Nesta didn’t feel fond warmth in her chest as she remembered, all of his words bound together in her own, neat library. She had already learned to resent them, to lock away each book and to label it contraband because Nesta had not been born the adventurer like her father had promised, with the soft beauty in her curious eyes. Nesta had been born the angriest sister—the Archeron with the iron rodded insults to match her steel-cladded heart.

There were no dreams for her, no stories to tell, no mountains to climb.

Nesta had never been anywhere. No place that she had not been forced to go… and every time she remembered his stories, her own lack thereof, she had the sudden urge to break things, and not just any things, but all of the worlds spoken through his jubilant voice.

Even now as she gazed at the crystalline blues and greys, she couldn’t help imagining the mountains collapsing. Every house and every tent flattening beneath rock, indistinguishable from the destruction, itself. It would become one with the chaos and Nesta trembled at the vision. Not because her powers demanded her to enact a forgotten memory but for her father who’d seen more lands than Nesta had walked on.

What would he think of Illyria, where cold snipped at her cheeks and the wind barked? Would he rejoice in childlike splendor? Learn each name of every resident, every type of evergreen and conifer? Or would he think like she did—that the forest around them made good kindling? That the smoke that rose from chimneys was a taunt, a risen middle finger to death and chaos and shame.

What would she tell him _she’d_ seen? Smoke wafting from chimneys. An endless amount of trees, that spanned so much of the horizon Nesta wondered how the ground wasn’t suffocating. Would she tell him she’d only seen a tiny part of the world and already it was too vast to take in? That she had woken up to sunshine and instead of it being from her bedroom window, it was the light that shined from above. Light and clouds and not the ingrained lines of wood from a cabin she abhorred, but the wind that sang in baritones and did not take a breath. 

Would Nesta tell him she sometimes dreamed strange dreams? Ones that felt so real she almost thought she had walked there, herself, talked herself through it, and did not notice until she was half a world away.

What a strange world it turned out to be. For the mountains danced here, and the wind sang, and the sun gleamed and glared at her menacingly and Nesta… swore she saw a mouth. The swollen light with its rows and rows of teeth, sharp and yellowed with age.

Did it watch her with its burning irises? Did it blink back with salacious, wide eyes curious as to what she offered—what she hid? Maybe it could look past the skin, see the bones beneath, hear the echo of a body that should have been filled, and full, and beating.

Nesta wanted to ask it so many questions as she stood there.

Did it see a high fae? A once-called witch? A shadow walking? A severe ache crawling—speaking on her behalf? Did it see a once-born human who’d never forgotten the taste of stale air and poverty?

Or did it only see a piece of her? An unshaded, pale sliver of the moon.

Perhaps—worst of all—did it see nothing? No one at all… Every good and decent thing so dismal it could be hidden in the deep folds of her dress—Someone whose father was in fact a liar and who had never really known what lied beneath her skin, but who had learned at the very least that she was indeed as wicked, as cruel, and as useless as she turned out to be.

Nesta narrowed her eyes at the small, sheltered city. Tents encroaching the center, like little cockroaches that kept running up the partitions, hiding in crevices of cracked drywall. She counted all of the houses, all of the training fields, all of the wings she could see with those fae eyes of her, from distances she could only begin to imagine.

To be burned or buried? Nesta so often wondered…

Sometimes, she wished to see it burn. All of the buildings. All of the tents. All of the people who did nothing but watch and wait and wonder. Something inside of her begged for it—hoped she’d hear the screams and smell the burning flesh.

_But it was only just a wish._ A dream. A forgotten memory. It was not real, just as seeing herself stand atop a mountain looking out to Windhaven was not real. Each heartbeat not living, each breath of air a figment of her sleepless, fitful nights. Just another book she’d lock away in the forbidden sections of her mind, where it would keep its company with her father’s many lies and the stories she had yet to write herself.

This mountain was not real—its height, the spikes of rock nothing to be afraid of, even if falling meant dying a quick and sudden death.

Nesta was not afraid of death. It could no more kill her in her sleep than it could keep her from plummeting from the edge, the rock a putrid greying white.

What would it feel like to fall? She asked herself. Would wings sprout from her shoulders and catch her mid-air? Or would her blood drip from the jagged edges while Nesta reached for the sun?

Maybe she wouldn’t fall at all, Nesta thought disappointedly, as she moved towards the ledge. Maybe she’d never even have the chance to regret the inevitable, or know what she’d call out for in the midst of shutting her eyes.

For when Nesta blinked awake she’d be back in the cabin, tucked into the heavy furs, the cold seeping into sleepy skin. Because all of it had not been real.

But Nesta stepped forward anyways. One foot and then another, until her whole body was ready for the air to catch her.

Nesta was not afraid of death.

After all, it was only just a dream.

~

Nesta pushed past the gaping double doors, the hinges swinging just enough that she heard one of the frame’s edges bang on a table. The two Illyrians startled at the noise.

She did not greet the female who looked up from over a pan of sizzling sausage, who all but sneered as she made her way to the wall. The aprons dangling from the racks. She did not wave hello to the young Illyrian in the corner peeling potatoes with a bucket and a basket at her side. They were not her friends, and Nesta was not friendly. She did not care at all if they liked her or not.

Nesta watched as the female kept her eyes on the knife, quickly swiping the peel away as it landed in spirals on the table. Perhaps, the Illyrian was thinking of her through each slice, each hard hit to the cutting board one of her fingers.

Nesta grabbed an apron, tied it around her, and took a knife along with a basket of carrots. She could feel their eyes on her as she moved to face the wall. The jade-colored wallpaper with its baby breath print mockingly feminine as she settled into the routine.

Nesta fell into the methodical rhythm. The knife through the carrots, the carrots falling to the cutting board, her hand swiping the contents to a wooden bowl. It almost made her forget that there were people around her. Females whose numbers were added as the time moved still, so pointedly silent that Nesta gripped the knife tighter.

One crunch and then another. One snap and then an ill-timed bang.

It all sounded like bones to her.

She could imagine skin under her knife, fingers on the board, and hands, and legs, and… heads. So many bodies sliced through, cut finely, piled one on top of another in a large wooden bowl—

A sharp laugh broke out behind her and Nesta dropped the knife, the clatter making her jump out of her skin.

She looked down where the blade had landed and bent to retrieve it, but blood dripped from her palm. It splashed with red inky droplets on the floor.

Nesta cursed and ran to the faucet. The running water ice-cold as she plunged her hand in.

Unsurprisingly, when the blood had washed away, the wound had healed. Her skin as pure and untainted as it had been before.

As if no pain had existed at all.

As if there wasn’t even a wound to begin with.

Yes, Nesta thought. She wished to see it all burn.

~

Let them be buried, Nesta decided as she stared into the night. Little eyes all over its dark body.

She hiked up the skirts of her dress, the ends of it wet and seeping.

_Buried_ under snow, Nesta thought, because they had not shoveled at all.

The streets were winding and up hills and icy and they had not shoveled. And Nesta would spend the rest of the evening walking through the town, past the training fields, onto the forest trail to that blasted cabin she only wanted to see burn.

The night may have been boundless—limitless, but it was not beautiful like those rambling idiots had claimed. It was only cold. Empty and cold and Nesta stood in the middle of it all while it tried to eat at her and the ground tried to swallow her whole.

She squinted at the stars, glared at them with all her might. What mighty power had gifted her this fate? To be born cold and empty and angry. Cold and empty and angry. Cold and empty and angry. Everyday of her life.

Everyday it had been too dark to walk comfortably. Too quiet to not hear every snap of a twig or some howl from a creature Nesta could only walk faster from. It was never-ending, never changing. With the buildings that turned to houses and the houses that turned to tents and on and on. One day after another. One Nesta after the next.

She could not escape—and she’d not been born with wings. Hadn’t been gifted them in the cauldron. It had taken too much from her and it had not given any back, and Nesta had… grabbed from it too. Though whatever it was it did not listen to her, did not keep her warm or safe or offer any comfort or freedom like wings might have.

Nesta was alone. That was another thing about the night, it made her feel lonely. More so than anything else.

But Nesta was not alone. She could hear the snap from the forest. A quick break of a limb. A soft rustle as she moved farther away and she hastened her steps.

Nesta saw nothing in the trees, veiled behind shadows and snow. She looked behind her, but she was too far and the night was too dark to see the soldiers pacing back and forth, guarding that village she hated so much. Not that they would help her if she asked.

Damn Cassian, for not having a house closer to town.

She crossed her arms, lifted her head, and walked straight ahead, never mind looking for things Nesta didn’t want to be noticed by. Her heart might have been thumping widely had she not started to hum to herself, some tune she barely remembered.

She kept walking even as she heard the growl. The sniff. The roar. She kept walking because she was not afraid. She kept walking even as she heard the muffle of cantankerous bird calls.

But when she heard the tune she hummed, hum back at her, her stomach squeezed tightly in her fists.

Nesta was too ashamed to admit she wanted to run all the way back to Velaris.

~

“I made roast!” Cassian sang, in lieu of a greeting. He raised the dish towards her, his lilac oven mitts contrasting starkly with the black shirt pulled tight across his muscles.

He waited for her response, much like a dog, Nesta thought. Too loud, and too eager to please, and it had taken a long time for Nesta to not blink outright at the display. Cassian had certainly acted different in his own home. Nesta still wasn’t sure if she cared for it or not.

“I’m not hungry.” Nesta declared. Her voice tired and cranky and just a bit wound from running half-way up the trail. Cassian merely set the dish in the center of the table, moving to take another pan out of the oven.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He said, and Nesta rolled her eyes at the term.

“Roast is your favorite. I even made those baby carrots you like. The ones drizzled in glaze…” He enticed moving the carrots around her and away again, so she’d get a whiff of something hot and steaming.

Nesta merely took off her scarf, her hands pink as she pulled off her gloves and she could smell the food of course, without the flourish. The sweet and the savory and the scent of fresh bread.

It made her want to vomit.

It probably would have too. She could barely muster two spoonfuls on occasion without having to run to the bathroom. Though that didn’t stop Cassian from trying… or insisting.

Nesta wondered what he thought of the whole ordeal—if Cassian had called her attention-seeking behind her back and was now indulging her. The thought made her want to take the ladle and smack that pretty head of his.

“Wash up.” He commanded and Nesta squinted at the tone.

“You have to be cold.” Cassian elaborated at her look, his eyebrows raising in mocking innocence.

She indeed _was_ … But she was always cold, and the fire had not offered warmth when it only sounded like bones. Everything bones and blood. Every day ice and emptiness.

She noted the concern flash between heavy lashes, but Nesta didn’t offer him a response and only gave him a blank stare.

“I’m going to my room.” She settled. No room for any questions or pestering. She was too tired to argue with him and maybe Cassian had seen it too, because he put down the dish without saying a word.

She threw her bag on the side table, peeled her coat off, stuffing it into the armoire, and plopped on the bed. A headache already forming as she closed her eyes.

Sleep would come, Nesta knew. The prospect didn’t offer any relief. She never had trouble sleeping. It wasn’t what worried her.

It was what came after the sleep…

The moment Nesta opened her eyes again, who knows what she’d see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be fixing chapter 2, and then posting chapter 3 since that’s mostly done and then we’ll see how far I get before the next book comes out and I lose all inspiration to write this fic!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta and Cassian get into an argument and Nesta searches for a new job in Windhaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 10/22

“We need to talk,” Cassian started, stepping back from the doorway as Nesta trampled past. A red ribbon, tied in her braids, swept behind her like the ends of a dragon’s tail.

Cassian followed. Of course, he did.

“Then talk,” she said as she made her way to the closet door, yanking it open to pull out a pelt of grey. Illyrian furs that barely fit her frame, as frail as she was now.

Cassian wanted to remind her to grab her gloves, but experience had taught him Nesta would not take kindly to the suggestion and he was already late to a meeting with Devlon. He could just imagine the look he’d get from the male who still seemed so daunting to him, glaring like he was still that child thrown out in the snow.

He ran a hand through his hair, the ends still damp as he clenched his teeth.

Cassian was _already_ annoyed—from the sight of Nesta or the thought of Devlon he didn’t know. Both aggravated him most days and it had only been two months. Nesta because… well, she was Nesta, and nothing about her had been easy. It had been fun to tease her back then, but now Nesta seldom laughed. Her eyes didn’t shine with the challenge, her nostrils didn’t flair in frustration. She was secretive. And taciturn. And though she got angry, she did not fight back. _Not like she used to._

Devlon, though, had been annoying for entirely different reasons. It was half-expected at this point, but the male got even more so when he and Nesta were set to move there indefinitely.

Of course, the Illyrians had rules, societies, classes, but Cassian, as the commander and confidant of their high lord, should have been made a head figure. _He was not_ and Devlon made sure to remind Cassian of every way he could not trounce his own authority.

Nesta and Devlon made a good team that way, like a fire and a forest worked so well together. It could only lead to chaos and damn them both if they had not enjoyed watching him squirm.

“You’ve been throwing away the food I leave you?” He asked, his voice rough and low. Her beautiful, perfect face the picture of boredom and plain nonchalance. She did not care that he had found the breakfast he’d left her yesterday in the trash that morning. Or the six previous ones before. Never mind that it was a waste of food or that she was wasting away.

He’d found the eggs in the trash… _with_ the plate _._

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nesta sang, giving him a look Cassian had termed bite me and not the fun, more enjoyable kind. Her stare was poignant and pernicious, and he watched as she lifted a delicate brow waiting for him to speak.

“Bullshit,” he roared. His temper flaring as he remembered watching the eggs run slowly down the porcelain. He had wanted to smash it right then and there, see all of the pieces collect at the bottom like a smattering of stars.

“If you know,” Nesta antagonized, her lips pursed as she tilted her head. “Why do you ask?”

Cassian crossed his arms and tried not look as if that question had not caught him off guard. _Why do you ask?_ Why do you care? He heard.

He tried to swallow the words down. All of them running down the back of his throat like slimy, sticky eggs.

“I made you that.” He replied, as if it were obvious. 

He watched as Nesta’s brows raised audaciously, her shoulders pulling impossibly behind her, as if she would grow her own pair of wings and have them compare whose indeed were bigger.

“I’m only putting it where it belongs.” She hissed as she stomped towards the kitchen.

A petulant child, Cassian thought, because these arguments were starting to get childish.

The breakfast he’d cooked that morning sat on the counter. The biscuits warm beneath the gravy. Something new to try since the eggs had always ended so badly. 

Nesta merely grabbed the plate, her palm lying flat on the bottom. The steam rose into the air like a middle finger and Cassian gritted his teeth.

She looked him in the eyes and with a delicate flourish, it fell from her hand.

Into. The. Trash.

Cassian looked at the bin incredulously. He could feel his mouth hang open, his eyes wide, and his temper itching up and up until he could feel his face warm. He didn’t know what to say, and Cassian wondered if his first words would be in yells or… admiration. He almost wanted to laugh, something far too maniacal and high-strung.

Nesta stormed past, her coat hanging like a cape as she tried to get each arm through. The door slammed shut behind her and Cassian would have let her go if she had not just hurt his pride.

_She’d always been good at running away._

“Have you been going the kitchens?” He called out from the porch.

Nesta’s face was already flushed, her nose red and her eyes bright as the cold soaked into her skin. He expected her to say nothing as she so often did, dismissing him as if he were another noise on the whirring wind, but she called back by some miracle.

“Of course, I have! Haven’t your spies told you.”

“I don’t have spies.” He said, rolling his eyes. Cassian could hardly say asking about her to one of the camp mothers, who sniffed as he spoke, was _spying._

She made wide strides as she waded through the heavy snow, and Cassian didn’t dare ask if he could drop her off. Not unless he wanted her pissed even more.

Who cares if she was cold? He asked himself. Nesta wasthe one who refused to wear other clothes _._ More _practical_ clothes—but she hadn’t touched those either when he left them out when she’d first arrived. No, Nesta would never take anything from him. Maybe nothing from any of them again, though she still wore the scarf Elain gave her so many springs ago.

It had not been Cassian’s idea for Nesta to join the kitchen ranks. He remembered being entirely against it when she first brought it up. But every day she walked to town and came home late at night, just to do it all again in the early morning. He hated to think of it. Nesta reduced _to chores?_

It had been his fault. All of it, in some way, was his fault. If he’d kept his promises or noticed the spiraling. If he’d been there no matter how many times Nesta pushed him away. _It could have been different._ And that’s what he remembered when she threw the food away or clobbered through the Illyrian winter.

She could belittle him all she wanted, but Cassian _had_ failed her. So, Nesta could ignore him, stomp past him, prefer the harsh winters to spending even a second with him, but he’d be there the next day, the next moment. He wouldn’t fail her again.

But cauldron damn him if she didn’t make it so hard.

“Please!” She drawled, whipping to face him. Nesta put her hands on her hips and Cassian wanted to smirk. Such a mighty picture of a warrior too far to be any real threat. “You’re telling me that you don’t conveniently ask where I am? If I showed up, who I left with, who I talked to? My, my, I never knew by coming here I was consenting to being stalked.”

_Stalked?_ He did not stalk her!

“I thought so.” Nesta affirmed at his silence, turning back to trudge again through the winding path.

The distance between the cabin and the camp had been appealing when Cassian first bought the land. Now, like everything else, his decisions liked to bite him in the ass.

“I’m trying to help.” He explained, his wings rising briskly as he felt them brush against the snow.

“Oh really?” She threw her hands up, gesturing all around, “Where have I been the past weeks? If you really wanted to help, I wouldn’t be here!”

“Then tell me now how to help!”

“Leave me alone!” She screamed, her voice rising so loud, he could hear an echo.

_Fine_ , Cassian thought, let her trip on the ice for all he cared.

Nesta had been nothing but a pain since she got here. If she wasn’t ignoring him, she was getting into trouble in the camp. On more than one occasion did Cassian have to explain to Devlon that she wasn’t here to torment the villagers or yell at them for staring at her too long. He was not her caretaker. 

“I’m late now thanks to you.” Nesta said exasperated, her breath coming out in smoke. She tucked her hands into her arms because she’d _forgotten_ her gloves.

Cassian watched as she shivered… _Mother help him._

“I can take you.” He quickly asserted, ready to swoop her up, flying armor or no and get on with his day. This argument far behind him.

“I don’t need your help!” She screeched, halting so fast that Cassian almost ran into her. Her pointed ears were blushing red, though not from the cold, he’d assumed. He could practically see the steam coming out of them.

“You know that temper of yours would work well in the ring.”

Nesta merely scoffed.

“I’m still open in the mornings if you’re interested,” Cassian prodded. He could see her fists clench, though she didn’t turn around. Cassian wouldn’t have been surprised if she tried to hit him then, but it would’ve been a cheap shot. She could barely walk through the inches of snow, let alone move swiftly enough to get in a good punch. “Train with me and we’ll see that temper put to good use. I can just imagine that mouth of yours—”

“No!” She pronounced, whipping towards him. Her nose scrunched and her eyes vicious. “Didn’t you hear the first time? I’m busy!”

“Doing what? Chores?” He snorted, waving his hands in the air. “Look at Nesta, peeling potatoes and stirring soup, what mighty power she has!”

Her nostrils flared, but she turned back around and something about the action made his anger rise. His wings soaring to impossible heights as she continued to walk away.

“How useful you are sweeping dust off the ground and picking up other people’s messes.”

Nesta merely lifted a shoulder. “Tell that to the females of this camp, I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”

Cassian _should_ have stopped talking then. He was a soldier; he should have known a thing or two about self-preservation… But it was _Nesta,_ and that thought seemed to console him more than anything else had. This was _Nesta,_ and he could never control himself around her. 

“You’ve been here for six weeks and you haven’t done anything but work in the kitchens and shelter yourself in your room.” He stated.

She waved her hand in salute, not even turning to glance behind.

_Oh, he should have swallowed his tongue._

“Where’s that person on the battlefield?” He rushed, his breath coming out in pants. “The one who stared down Hybern and cut off his head?

Nesta stopped in her tracks. Her head rising to mountainous heights.

Just her stance told him to shut his mouth or he was going to eat his words. But Cassian had had enough. She could ignore him all she wanted, but Nesta was going to listen first.

“Where’s that girl who looked those queens in the eyes and told them she hoped they all burned? Who couldn’t even for one moment stand a human being left behind?”

Cassian watched as the snow seemed to come down harder, the wind picking up as if it could sense it too—the amount of trouble he was going to be in.

“What about that female who took one look at how injured I was and decided she couldn’t leave me behi—”

“Stop talking!”

“Bring back that girl.” He continued. Nesta standing entirely too still to be fae. “I would much rather talk to her.”

The flurry kicked up behind her as Nesta stomped towards him and instead of it reminding him of tantrums and small children who could do no real harm, Nesta reminded him of old gods. Giants and ginormous footprints. Maybe, she’d stomp on him too, make him look like that flattened snow.

The mighty warrior in him squared. His back rigid and straight. His hands fumbling to grasp the weapon he didn’t have. So unprepared for an attack from someone like her. Someone who looked at him with bright, furious eyes.

He remained still as she stood in front of him and jabbed her finger into his chest.

Cassian remembered all those months ago, when Nesta’s eyes had turned a liquid grey, molten metal stirred slowly in a cauldron. How he distracted her then from rushing towards Rhys with that unknown power of hers. He had seen that look before, and he had not seen it since.

But it had not disappeared like they often thought it had. It was in the midst of them, in the grey of her irises. In the burning fury of that look.

“That girl is dead.” She spit, her finger prodding into his chest like a sword through his heart. “Dead. She died on the battlefield that day—”

Her eyes turned a subtle shade of red, and Cassian wondered if Nesta knew that she looked ready to cry as much as she looked ready to pummel. Even now he wanted to reach for her.

“If you bother me one more time, Cassian,” She sneered, “she won’t be the only one.”

Cassian breathed in her smoke-filled scent and Nesta turned away, that red ribbon unraveling at the ends and whipping at his face. Cassian should have left it alone. He had the vague inclination that he was treading on fragile territory, where one wrong move could be costly to his arsenal. But Cassian wasn’t the sort to let someone walk away from an argument he could certainly win himself.

He crossed his arms as he watched her straighten once more, shaking off the snow and this day away.

“Empty threats,” He called.

Nesta clenched her firsts. He hoped she’d turn back again and continue to spar with him, but she simply walked ahead. His words lost on the rushing wind.

_Too bad,_ Cassian thought, he had missed fighting with her.

~

Nesta could never quite describe what war looked like, not when she tried to recall exactly how the knife plunged into Cassian’s stomach or how loud the crack of her father’s head had snapped. It was all a blur of fragments and feelings, and though she could sometimes remember the sobs and the moaning, she could never picture the beings they had come from. Could never trace the blood to see where it ended or began.

Piece by piece it had been and so piece by piece it had left her, but it had not left her spirit and it had not left these people before her now. The dust had settled, and it was on their hair and in their eyes, resting sweetly on their shoulders. The memories hugged them tightly and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. Maybe they were all suffocating from them. Maybe Nesta was just one of the many, trying to attain enough air.

But Nesta was not like them, she tried to remind herself. She had not trained all her life for some half-hearted attempt at pursuing gilded glory. She did not want to see how strong she was with that power of hers or count how many names called out to her in desperation. There was no amount of deaths she could endure. Nesta had barely breathed past the first one.

In that respect, she was more like the females left behind than the males chasing swords on the battle fields, that stared at her as she walked by, some monster in boots and fur.

Nesta would never admit that what Cassian said had bothered her.

All of it bothered her. From the camps, to Velaris, to those sycophants sheltered by the sidra, to his words. Especially his words. Like an arrow, nearly missing her head, hitting her shoulder, sitting in it and festering into a wound that wouldn’t mend. Skin closing up—healing, but wrong. All wrong.

Cassian’s words shouldn’t have surprised her, though, and for that she had wanted to hit him right then and there. Her soul demanding that he eat those sentences with the rest of the food she had thrown away.

_How dare he say those things?_

The fury had her marching through that blasted camp, weaving through the tents and all the businesses lining the unpaved roads, even past the kitchens directly in the center of town. She sneered as she entered the training fields. Vibrating with all thoughts she wanted to scream out loud.

Nesta pushed open the tent flaps, the white and red, a flurry of wings barely missing her on the way inside. She sidled up to the female with a clipboard in her hand. With her spine rigid and her head raised, the words came spilling out of her lips. 

“I want to work.” She declared.

The older female glanced up, her dark eyes flashing as she looked her over. Nesta wanted to step back at the perusal had it have not looked weak to do so. For all the talk Cassian had mentioned about warriors, this female could have been right alongside them. A sword in her hand, a bow across her back.

Nesta, in comparison, did not look fearless at all. Her mussed hair. Her wet, soaking boots. Her chest heaving from the trek. Her face was surely red.

Nesta had always been proud. She commanded respect, and she’d never been less than perfect, even as poor as they’d been. But now… 

“We don’t need any more workers. Try the kitchens.” The female replied, her voice clipped and dismissive.

“I already help in the kitchens.” Nesta asserted, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear as it fell to her face. The Illyrian was immaculately tidy, and Nesta felt the inadequacy settle in. She could almost hear laughter, like a ghost in her memories. Laughter and whispers and so, so much anger Nesta wanted to reach out and punch.

_She had never been less than presentable._

“Then you’ll be too busy for us.”

“I can help.” She insisted.

The females sharp nose dipped in annoyance, her head titling as she looked on and on. Nesta wondered what she saw. How ugly did her appearance make her?

With a subtle shift of a brow, the Illyrian waved her hand, “As I’ve said, we don’t need help at this moment.”

The female tried to walk on, but Nesta swerved in her path.

“I can do the work!” She forced.

The Illyrian smirked at that and Nesta saw red. Shades of maroon and scarlet weaving into the browns of the female’s hair.

“Really?” She questioned, her voice rising into clangorous tunes. The female walked to the corner of the room, reaching into a basket and pulling something out. Nesta observed a branch in her gloved palm, as the female held it out towards her. “What is this then?”

Nesta took the stick from her hand and held it close to her. She ran her fingers along the dead vine and the parts tinged in a reddish brown.

Perhaps… Feyre would have known. She’d been in forests before. When she was young, she liked to play in the woods. Or maybe Elain. She had a garden after all.

But Nesta?

The only thing Nesta knew for sure was that it was dead. Lifeless and old, it was scratchy in her hand. It would grow no more and something about that thought made her grip it tightly. The edges sharp in her palm.

As for a name…

“I don’t know.” She mumbled quietly.

“ _That_ is poison oak.” The female spoke. Her lips pursed and pink. Nesta wanted to drop it at the tone, but she held onto it and squeezed. “There are over five kinds in our forests today, and every week I get about three people coming in needing cream for rashes, because they didn’t know it still grew in the winter.”

The Illyrian walked towards the shelf along the tent wall, her hair pinned tightly to her head as she grabbed a clay bottle.

Nesta for the life of her couldn’t tell how old she was. She could have been in her thirties or two thousands, and Nesta had been barely twenty-three when she had changed. _Twenty-three still_ , but not forever, she thought, for this female had aged. True, she had no wrinkles or graying hair, but there was something in that gaze when she turned back towards her.

Something old. Someone too tired for her ignorance.

“Contrary to its effect it treats several different skin ailments, and the dye we often use to stain garments.” She handed the bottle to Nesta, taking the branch from her palm with a cloth. “Wash your hands before you leave. If your hands itch? Three times a day for six days.“

The Illyrian said no more as she took off the cloth encasing her hands and picked up her clipboard without a sparring glance.

“That’s it.” Nesta admonished. “You’re giving me this… and that’s it? _I can work_.” She repeated, trying not to squeeze the bottle so hard it’d break. 

“As I’ve said before I don’t need more workers.”

“I don’t understand…” Nesta shook her head, her words slighted. “I’ve helped in infirmaries before.”

_A lie, really._ Because the closest she’d been to an infirmary was wrapping Cassian’s hand and fetching buckets. Most of the time, she just rolled bandages so tightly her own hands had turned white… and Nesta could barely stand the sight of blood. She’d nearly puked the last time she’d seen it, some child simply scarring at the knee on his walk past the sidra.

She dreamt of bodies and snapped necks, but it didn’t make her any less squeamish. Any less hopeful that she’d never see another wound again.

The female must have seen it then—the incompetence. Because she only raised a brow. “You think seeing war makes you good at healing wounds? There’s more to it than just the dead, you know.”

“I have seen more than the dead.”

“What have you seen, my dear?” She patronized. “You don’t know the first thing about common plants. What skill can you offer me that would be of any use?”

Nesta was starting to hate that word.

_Use._

How useful did she have to be to these people? Wasn’t it hard enough to live?

As a human, she was useful if she married well and remained beautiful and quiet. A dutiful, obedient wife. As a fae, she was useful if she could scare a whole village into submission or if she succeeded at one of those jobs her sister’s dimwitted mate had conjured up. She was not useful in the bars she had frequented or in the beds of those strange men she slept with—not in the way her sisters could be _proud_ of. And it seemed she was only useful here if she had been born and bred an Illyrian, with strapping, strong wings to match.

She’d seen the way they looked at her. _She was definitely not useful here_.

But Nesta said nothing to the Illyrian who had gone back to her clipboard, who turned away and walked behind the opening into some enshrouded, unknown part of the tent.

Her own words were swallowed down. _Chewed_ and swallowed. Until they sat in the pit of her stomach, collecting, digesting, and decomposing inside of her.

Something dead, gnawing on unfettered flesh.

Her stomach ached from them all.

~

Nesta’s hands itched. She had washed them as soon as she left the infirmary, and no lesions or rashes marred her skin, but still Nesta itched.

In her half-hearted attempt at sticking it to the female who refused her aid, Nesta had dropped the ointment somehow… She couldn’t say exactly when or exactly where, she just knew her hand had conveniently let go of the bottle. She could still distantly hear the ringing of clay hitting icy rock.

Luckily, Nesta had found gauze in the kitchens, and she’d wrapped her hand tightly in the stark, rippled fabric. It hardly brought her relief. She kept pressing her fingers to her palms, rubbing her hands together to settle some of the pain. Still, they itched and Nesta tried not to scratch abrasively. 

The cold didn’t seem to help her either and every minute she stood outside was another minute her hands burned and her body shivered. Even so, Nesta didn’t particularly want to go back.

She wasn’t in the mood to see Cassian and walk hurriedly away… or fight with him as if their arguments were a substitute for the training she refused. Nesta didn’t want to see Cassian at all. She never did _usually_ , but it was something about this week that had Cassian appearing in front of her as if she’d summoned him with a wave of her hand and a butchered blood offering—some dead carcass of her hopes and dreams.

Nesta tightened the coat around her, pulling up the hood as the wind picked up. The fur smelled pungent from the kitchens and some part of her almost wished to be back there.

_But no,_ Nesta thought as she shook her head, the cold suited her better.

Icy dreams for icy hearts…

And since, she could neither go back to the kitchens nor greet Cassian like an obedient lap dog, Nesta walked in _the opposite direction_. Walked until all of the lights of the small camp dissipated and only closed shops remained.

One shop’s lights still gleamed through the frosted windows, the building tucked away from other businesses and tents. Nesta tried to peek inside, the glass crystallized in places that she wanted to shatter, if only to see how closely the fragments resembled snow.

A piece of holly was still tacked to the door from Solstice weeks before, and she could barely make out the sign. Words had been crossed out from the wood, providing no context as to what was in the shop. Nesta supposed it didn’t really matter anyway. Most had lived in Windhaven all their lives. Most would die in Windhaven at the end. 

Still, Nesta wanted to know. She trampled curiously to the shop, anxious for a chance to see something new in this gods forsaken town.

Her hand was nearly twisting the knob when the door slammed open. 

An Illyrian jumbled past.

Nesta jumped out of the way, settling her hands on her chest as her heart thumped wildly. The female carried a trash bag on her shoulder, and she didn’t greet her. Not even bothering to apologize for nearly knocking her over. She simply walked to the bins while Nesta imagined several ways she could run forward and push. 

“Is that how you keep customers?” Nesta called out. “By running them over.”

The female yelped in surprise, turning quickly to see Nesta crossing her arms. The metal lid banged as she dropped it and Nesta grimaced at her lack of grace.

“Have you been there the whole time? I didn’t even see you!”

“Well, I didn’t pop out of the bushes,” Nesta scoffed.

The Illyrian stepped closer and the light of the shop offered Nesta a clearer view of her contentious rival. The female’s eyes were wide and her mouth slightly agape as Nesta remained staring. She would not be the first to avert her eyes, and Nesta wondered, not for the first time, what she must have looked like. Earlier she’d been a wild animal of sorts, running to the infirmary with her hair half-askew and her anger untempered. But now, did she look like a beast ready to bite? A cursed, blasted fae.

“I did not see you.” She repeated.

“Clearly,” Nesta announced.

The Illyrian looked towards the door, open and wide as Nesta stood beside it—some terrible dragon hoarding away its treasure. Nesta had the vague idea to stand in front of the doorway and see exactly what the female would do to get back inside… but she was tired, and the evening had bled into night, and Nesta was nowhere near close to being back to that damned cabin.

She stepped to the side at once and huffed as the female rushed past her. 

“Did you want to buy something?” She called from inside, her voice laced with concern and enough cautiousness that Nesta wondered if she should indeed go in and snoop around.

_Ash can kill you now_ , she remembered Cassian saying, even if she waved away the sound of his voice.

But Cassian didn’t know _anything,_ she reminded herself. 

So, Nesta perused the shop. There were a handful of dress forms, and leathers encased. Furs the color of smoldering smoke. Boots and hats and all sorts of clothes that Nesta looked upon but did not touch.

A few pairs of gloves sat on a high shelf and Nesta reached for a brown set, holding them high to the odd and curious shop owner.

“How much are these?”

“Ten silvermarks.” She answered, with a sterile gaze.

Luckily, Nesta had learned to never show surprise or the female might have seen that Nesta did not have that kind of money. No matter how low it might seem to her. She was embarrassingly poor and Nesta’s cheeked warmed at the admission.

All she had left now, settled at the bottom of her bag, were a few bank notes and barely enough coins to by _another_ set of gloves. _She had a pair at home,_ Nesta reminded herself.The purchase was unnecessary. She had withstood the cold all day, she did not need them now. But still Nesta pulled out the coins, trying not to grimace at her dwindling money.

The female collected her due, and Nesta teased the leather onto her fingers.

“What happened to your hands?”

Nesta balled them into fists, turning away to lightly graze a pelt of white.

“Poison oak.” She admitted sternly, leaving no room for criticism.

Nesta looked back to see the female nodding slowly. “I’ve heard many people think it’s not alive in the winter, but it’s the oil on the stems that can still cause rashes. Is that what happened to you?”

Nesta schooled her features into plain nonchalance. _Was this common knowledge?_ Shethought, outraged.

“You run this place yourself?” Nesta asked instead of answering.

Nesta noted the high beams… the catered wood. The shop was cared for and clean and Nesta saw no one else, heard no one else in what felt like the middle of nowhere. Though all of Windhaven had seemed to be in the middle of nowhere to her.

“Yes.” She asserted, nodding as her words were laced with certain edge. “It’s my shop.”

Nesta only looked her over, observing the hard ridge of her nose, the slow blink of her lashes. Something about that look, that assertiveness, made Nesta want to lie. To herself or to the female, she didn’t know.

She had never owned anything. Not a shop, not a home, not her own will even. This Illyrian seemed to have all three, and Nesta felt the bitterness rise up and up until she felt she’d float to that well dusted ceiling.

“You’re Nesta.” She said carefully. “You’ve moved in with the general-commander.”

No doubt she could hear her words. _Whore._ It’s what her mother would have said if she’d heard Nesta was living with a man unwed, but Cassian was no _man_.

“What business is that of yours?” Nesta inquired, her voice hard and loud, even to her own ears.

The female simply shrugged, her wings rising with her shoulders and tucked tightly behind her back.

“It isn’t, I suppose,” she answered honestly, “It’s just the only thing I know of you.”

“And I know nothing of you.” She was quick to respond.

Nesta tried not to itch her palms, her hands sweating in the leather material. The bandages caused too much friction in those tiny gloves and she could feel the sticky, wetness.

The female blinked wide—her head tilting lightly.

“My name is Emerie.” She gestured to the room, to Nesta. “I own this shop. I sold you _those_ gloves.”

Her eyes were bright as her lips raised cautiously. And It was something about that look, too, that made Nesta want to start making up stories. Nesta seldom laughed. “And as you’ve said, I get customers by running them over.”

Nesta did not smile. She could only step back, her chin raised to tall heights. Her spine impossibly straight. She didn’t know what to say… She’d never been well versed in conversation, even more so these past months.

She opened her mouth to say as much but Emerie looked past her towards the window, the snow coming in harder as Nesta finally peeled off the gloves from her soaked hands.

“You should get back.” Emerie spoke softly.

Everything in her body wanted to resist, even as she could hear herself agree, but the store front could not stay open forever… 

Stepping over the threshold, Emerie came up to close the door behind her. Nesta did not say thank you or promise to visit again. Neither did the female wave or so much as grimace a goodbye.

Emerie was not her friend, Nesta reminded herself. She had no friends.

Emerie had indulged her for the business alone. That was all she was worth. A measly 10 silvermarks. She was certainly not worth a signed check from a bar or a pleasure house. All of that gold and jewels wasted on her fragmented pieces.

So, Nesta would not get attached to this moment—to this memory that was mostly made of dreams. 

The snow fell harder as she held out her palm, the flakes sticking to the bandages she started to carefully unravel. Her hands were still red, and welting and she let the cool air soak her skin. 

Nesta could only sigh as the chill and the pain returned once more.

~

The plate was already set when she got back.

Chicken over rice. A side of seasoned squash. Nesta’s mouth watered, but her stomach cramped. She could not make herself eat it.

She picked up the note left beside the plate, the paper crisp and the handwriting messy. Cassian’s voice in letters and ink.

_I’ll be back. Please eat,_ it said. Nesta flicked the corner and set it down.

She picked up the plate, the food a heavy weight in her hands, piled and steaming… and Nesta should have given in. Should have let the food fill her too thin body, regardless of whether she could stomach it or not. But… she had never gone hunting after Feyre had picked up a bow, her father sitting in that chair with his cane leaning against it. She had never really chopped wood. Her father had died in the worn cloth, and Nesta had died watching him sit. Both of them decaying in that shack of theirs. She had wished for them to die and still… _nothing_.

It seemed a waste of precious time to give in now. 

So, Nesta walked past the table, through the living room, through the kitchen. She let all of the shadows watch her as she made it past. Nesta opened the door, the wind howling its unceremonious song, her coat and gloves still lying on the closet floor. 

The food was still steaming as Nesta held the plate flat in her palm.

As she let it drop to the concrete.

As it shattered into a splattering of stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that the word I hate most in the ACOTAR universe is General-Commander? I can barely stomach saying it without gagging… But here it is in my writing. smh.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what to say right now because you know the state of the U.S. is still up in the air but (shrugs) happy reading I guess! I also don't even know if this sounds that good, I've only read through it a couple hundred times and I usually read in the thousands so who knows! Alas... 
> 
> (Please read the first two chapters if you haven't read this fic in a while, they've been edited and many things have changed since then)

“You’re going to catch a cold, if you keep coming here looking like a wet dog,” the Illyrian said, raising a brow. “And I don’t treat animals.” 

Nesta merely lifted her head in greeting, not at all concerned with the fiery depths of her glare or the deep, authoritative note of her voice. She’d heard harsher, been harsher than the female in front of her. She’d withstood colder days than this one, too. 

“I am here to work.” She repeated and the Illyrian scoffed, rolling her eyes at the phrase she’d heard every day since last. Nesta raised her chin at the challenge. 

The Illyrian’s shoulders squared, the brown pelt of fur shifting to reveal a plain shirt tucked into pleats, and Nesta noted the chain around her neck with an emblem to match. The necklace decorated in obsidian beads. 

“I have no job for you here.” 

“Then I’ll wait.” She said, leaning against the tent walls, already prepared with a book in her hand. 

The female sniffed and Nesta gripped the book harder. Her knuckles tight against the pages even if she didn’t so much as grimace. 

She knew that look. The prideful nonchalance. The _I am better than you_ turn of her lips. Arrogance and conceit. It reminded her of her mother. That stern look that made Nesta remember wanting her room, her door ready to hide her behind its wood, behind the slam of its hinges. Such comforting, familiar anxiety. Nesta wished she had the talent to capture the look, even envied Feyre for her skill to keep memories on canvas and across frames. 

Her wings painted the morning in crisp amber veins, and the female seemed to grow taller right before her eyes. Nesta's temper rose to the occasion as she took a step forward. 

Her mother always _did_ say her worst trait was that she was stubborn. If Nesta didn’t want the porridge, she wouldn’t eat it, no matter how many times the maids put it in front of her. If she didn’t want to learn to waltz, she would sit on the foyer, crossing her arms, and not even the prospects of extra dessert or the lure of new toys would make her get up from the ground. 

Nesta’s father on the other hand had laughed. Her antics reminding him of successful business deals across the sea. _This_ was her best trait, he’d said, because he worked with others less headstrong than her and only, she could come out with an outcome so lucrative. When he had told her this, Nesta had made it a point to be as stubborn as possible. 

So, Nesta did not back down even if the female pointedly glared, huffing in annoyance as Nesta refused to leave from her idle threats. She merely walked through the tent flaps, wisps of her dark hair flying behind, untucked from her scarf. 

Nesta resumed her position leaning against the green material and began reading once more. Suddenly lost in dreams of ships going out to sea and porridge getting colder. 

~ 

The infirmary was run by an Illyrian named Ira, Nesta learned. She had hailed from Dunravar, on the coast of the Great Sea and moved to Windhaven when her sister had married. And she had always been like that—no nonsense and just a tad crass. 

“I was scared of her when I was young.” Emerie spoke. “Her long witchy fingers, the pointed nose. She’d poke and prod at me and I was certain she was feeling how tender I was so she could cook me later.” 

Nesta sighed, resting her chin in her palm. “Whether she’s scary or not, I still want to work there.” 

But the look Emerie gave her did not fill her with confidence. 

Nesta couldn’t say she was either. She had been sitting outside that tent for weeks and she had yet to be invited inside. The last time she did enter, all she heard were yells from the female about minding her own when she’d inadvertently run in on a rather thorough exam of some war-torn soldier. Nesta didn’t have the patience that day to continue waiting outside. 

“Are you still going to the kitchens later?” 

She nodded her head, her lips forming a thin line. “Yes, I work in the evenings, now.” 

Emerie reached up, dusting the tallest shelf and Nesta couldn’t help but grimace as the flecks of dust sprinkled down on the freshly polished floor. 

“And you still have to walk back?” Emerie offered incredulously. “Don’t you think that’s a little bit late for you to work?” 

“Why would it be?” Nesta asked, her voice not at all looking for an answer. She’d heard this argument before, and the thought of his voice made her want yell vulgar profanities. So, what if she worked all day? Wasn’t he always complaining that she’d slept all day? Or that she drank all night? It seemed that it didn’t matter what she did, Nesta did everything wrong by his standards, backwards by her sisters’ standards, and thoroughly disgraceful to her sister’s buffoon of friends. 

She couldn’t win in any likelihood and so Nesta wouldn’t try. Their approval an impossible task. 

“Aren’t you ever afraid of being out at all hours of the night? What if something were to happen to you?” 

Nesta snickered, “Like a beast runs out of the forest and eats me.” 

“Like a male waits for you to be alone and corners you in some alley.” 

_Been there, done that_ , Nesta wanted to say, but she swallowed the remark. 

“So, a beast runs out of a _tent_ and eats me? Interesting.” 

Emerie jumped down from the chair, stepping towards her as she placed her hands on her hips. The grey feathers still sprinkling dust down and down. Nesta had to resist the urge to kick the trash bin under the brush. 

“You should be more careful.” The Illyrian warned sternly. Grumbling as she said, “Why do you even work in the kitchens, it’s not like your obligated to do it?” 

Nesta leaned back on the counter, tapping her fingers on the glass. 

It was a good question, one Nesta had asked herself many times and one she didn’t think she had the right answer to even now. In the beginning, it had been a moment to get out of the house and in another it was to piss Cassian off, because she’d learned he hated the chores. The obligation of them, and Nesta knew all about obligation. It had been her life for years before it was deemed meaningless _women’s work_ that she shouldn’t be happy to partake in. Not that Nesta ever really did. 

“Because one day Lord Devlon had asked why I wasn’t upheld to chores if I lived in this camp and was expected to be treated the same… and Cassian, he had told him I was not like them and I had wondered what he meant by them. By me and... you all. What difference did he see between us?” 

“You are not Illyrian.” Emerie stated simply. Suddenly serious and not that female who opened her door and left it wide open the next time, when Nesta pretended she’d lost her gloves. She could see the difference even as Emerie didn’t seem too different before her now. But Nesta could tell. 

It was in the eyes, she thought, and Nesta wondered what it all meant to be looked at like that. With bright, furious eyes. 

“Does that matter?” She asked lightly. 

“It matters to them—to us.” Emerie corrected harshly. “It matters to us because tradition is more important than glory. It is more important than even war though the males are raised to yearn for it and the females to encourage it. Perhaps the males train because that too is a tradition.” 

Emerie whipped the duster towards her, pointing it as if it was her finger. The dust sprinkled at her feet, falling like ash and snow and Nesta kicked the dust aside, refusing to be buried under it. She noted the red in her cheeks, the purse of Emerie’s lips. It was a look she’d before in a mirror or two. Something undeniably bitter and angry. 

"I say this just in case you believe you can change their minds by being obstinate.” 

Nesta huffed a laugh. “Because doing chores is such an honor.” She gestured to the walls, the leather. “And I suppose owning a shop is child’s play. Mother forbid you give it all up now to go boil water and skin tomorrow’s lamb.” 

“Many beings here would rather die than give up their ways… Including Ira. She’s one of the oldest beings in this camp. People say she saw Devlon when he was in swaddling.” 

Nesta stared at her questioning, wondering for whom Emerie was talking and what exactly she meant by it all. 

“A High Fae learning what your kind has always called simple and archaic? If you weren’t standing right in front of me, I wouldn’t believe it.” 

“What are you saying?” 

“I’m saying that I took over this shop, what rightfully belonged to me based on my blood, and still they don’t want to visit. I have every cloth they might need, and no one is at my door. You may think you can go help in the kitchens or wait outside the infirmary at all hours of the day, but... don’t be disappointed if they still don’t let you in.” 

Nesta felt the words settle in the pit of her stomach, felt them bubble up as she rose to stand. Emerie crossed her arms and Nesta glared, though she couldn’t say why the words agitated her so swiftly. But it made her nauseous and Nesta did not have time to swallow the bile that had risen up her throat. 

“It’s not my fault they don’t want you.” She heard herself say. 

Emerie’s gaze turned ferocious. The rims of her eyes turning red, and Nesta wanted to continue. To tell her that she looked equally as likely to cry as she did to attack. But Nesta did not get the chance to say this to the Illyrian whose chest was still heaving, her hands scrunched and shaking. 

"Get out.” Emerie spoke. A quiet, stern phrase. 

Nesta picked up her coat, as graceful as she could muster, her shoulders still poised and precise. She pretended to wipe the dust off it, though there was none that she could see, and Emerie merely watched her all the way to the door. Some vicious monster in her midst. 

Nesta didn’t bother putting on her coat as she left the small shop, as she welcomed the frigid temperatures. 

The cold had already become her dearest friend. 

~ 

Nesta wasn’t sure why she always felt angry when she looked at Cassian. At first, he’d been nothing but a pebble in her shoe—irritating because he brought of things, he knew nothing about. And then, he became someone who made her temper swell into such fine-tuned fury that she’d wanted to scratch out his eyes and feed them to the crows she’d seen pecking away at Elain’s garden. 

But somewhere between their cantankerous voices crescendoing into insults and ire, somewhere between all the _noise_ ... Cassian had been exciting. Finally, there was someone who could match her blow by blow and wipe it away like dust off an old book. He _was_ in fact as bitter as she was. Even if he did smile and laugh like nothing at all was wrong. 

He had cared for her then, promised things she never wanted to hear again, even if she heard those words incessantly. In her nightmares. In her dreams. 

And Nesta had liked making him angry. The teasing turn of his lips filled with enough sensuality, she had wanted to reach up and find exactly what those words tasted like coming from his lips. It was fun to see his eyes burn when he looked at her—that look that made him seem to question whether he wanted to push her out the window or wanted to take her to bed. It made her feel... powerful, more so than any of the magic hidden in her veins. More so than even the bitter, rotting hate that allowed her to walk with a crown over her head, though it was indeed made of thorns. 

She had gotten used to looking at Cassian, yearning for a glimpse of him. But now... 

Now... as she looked him over sitting on the soft grey of the couch, his wings expanding behind as if he’d lounge there for eternity, Nesta could only think that she’d wished he’d suffered more. She didn’t know why she thought of such things, when she laid her body across his. Hadn’t she felt something then? Something other than her veins catching fire. But the thought itched all the way up to her ears, harmonized with the fire’s roar. 

Nesta burned with it all, and quite enjoyed the warmth. 

Cassian, turning his head to look at her, only wore a solemn face. A look she’d seen plenty. 

“You okay?” He breathed. 

Nesta didn’t answer his question. She looked at the walls, the shadows forming on the paint as if it oozed out of its crevices. The flames scratching up the wood. And the sound—gnarling animals and who knows what else devouring her whole, chewing on her bones. Emerie had been right to compare beasts and arrogant males. 

Here sat one right in front of her. Tall and unknowingly malicious. Hungry, perhaps. Waiting for her to come back so he might just take one bite. 

Her eyes scanned him head to toe, her hands bulging into fists, and something in her body snapped awake. Something in her body going, _oh that’s right_. 

_I’m here because of you._

~ 

Nesta could see her breath puff out before her. What she wouldn’t give to tell her father that she was made of smoke when he always believed she was fire incarnate. Living flames. Always burning. Angry to the core. 

She held her palm out, collecting the flakes that settled on her gloves. Each speck of snow completely unaware that it had landed on someone without a home, without a job, and without any meaningful life. How it remained on the leather without melting to get away, Nesta would never know. 

She had almost not come to the infirmary that morning, the words of yesterday blurring into tomorrows and she hadn’t gotten much sleep that night. With Emeries gaze still in her mind and Cassian’s... everything else. 

It was always like this. It would always be like this, Nesta thought. How she wasn’t used to the disappointment by now, she didn't know. But it was the thought of forever's that made her stomach ache. Her hand pulling at her bodice when it was harder to breathe. 

Eternity was a long time to hate oneself. She couldn’t imagine being a hundred, or two, or three, and still be here. Not this place, but in this body. In this head of hers that couldn’t move past yesterday. How she wished to take another one. Another face. Another name. Another being, entirely. 

Nesta wondered if perhaps she was still drowning in that cauldron. If she had not actually emerged fae. Maybe she was still being pulled apart in its moving depths. Re-arranged. None of the pieces fitting back together but being stitched sideways and upside down and backwards. 

Oh, how Nesta wished she’d only been made backwards. How easy it would be to rip herself open and sew herself correctly. A new name, a new face, a new being entirely. 

But Nesta was here. 

And though she often felt like she was sinking, the ground was solid as she stepped. The tent green and bright and not the dark, unknown parts of a world she could not hide from. Her toes might have been blue from where the snow seeped into her boots, but Nesta was not being grabbed by the feet, dragged further and further down. 

This place was familiar. 

_Familiar_ she could handle. The sky a hue of blue with a single streak of orange? Nesta had seen that before. The tent flaps parted at the seams, Nesta recognized. But it was the light of the tent that had Nesta pacing forward. A sudden drop in her stomach that said she was late, late, late. 

Ira must have been there already. 

Nesta’s shoulders sunk at the thought. 

_This was not how it was supposed to go._ She was supposed to stand beside the entrance way, a book at the ready and a stubborn expression permanently painted on her face. Ira was supposed to give her a glare, followed by a snarky reply. Nesta would tell her she wanted to work, and Ira would tell her no. Just like every other day she had done this. A comfortable and familiar routine. 

Ira was _not_ supposed to get there before her, and Nesta cursed herself for not coming in early, for not anticipating the move of her opponent. 

Ira had won this game, Nesta thought, for catching her by surprise. 

She looked towards that spot, the spot she’d proclaimed as her own for how often she’d been there. Nesta expected to find it empty. The space eerily cold without her body to fill it, but when her gaze crossed the premises, a stool had taken her place. 

Nesta rushed to greet it, her face warming in the frigid air. 

Sure enough, a stool marked her position, and she wondered if Ira had put it there to stave her off. _If you will stand, you will not stand here_ , she could imagine her saying with that twisted smirk. Her long fingers tapping away any chances of her being welcomed inside. 

But as a stool stood there, so did a book. The leather a deep shade of charcoal. 

Nesta picked it up, feeling the symbol etched into the surface, trying to make out a title in a language she couldn’t read. She could hear the bustle coming from inside the tent, but Nesta didn’t care to go inside. She plopped on the stool instead, her own book forgotten as she shoved her bag to the floor. 

Nesta flipped through the book, flowers blooming in every page. She traced her hand on the etchings and imagined the unknown words planting themselves like seeds in her mind. Growing such deep roots that Nesta could hear them being whispered in her ears. The language soothed a wound that Nesta could only bandage up, and where a fire once raged, having only left smoldering ash, wildflowers sprung from the dirt. 

_Try again_ , the words said. 

~ 

Emerie’s brows crinkled like crumbled paper and Nesta’s words were tossed to the ground in littered thoughts. She didn’t know what to say to the female who stood on the steps leading down from her room. Her hair tucked into a braid; a simple apron tied at her waist. Emerie didn’t say anything, either. For all intents, they could have been frozen there. The mountainous winds finally catching up with the frigid winter skies. 

“I was in the area.” Nesta began, cursing at herself for sounding so odd to her ears. 

Emerie only nodded, “Alright…” 

Nesta looked towards the book in her hands, some part of her already dreading the idea that Emerie knew more than her. She knew that Nesta had not just walked by. She knew that she was unable to stay away, that she had enjoyed her company even if she wanted to forget it all. 

And forget it all, she tried. 

The emblem at the front depicted a sickle, the weapon carving away at a plant she couldn’t name growing from the leather. She held it up for Emerie to see. 

“I was wondering if you could help me with this.” She spoke, sliding it across the counter as Emerie caught it with little effort. 

The Illyrian flipped through the pages, her hands grazing against each picture as if she were in the forest herself, picking them stem by stem. Nesta had done the same, such a mirrored image that she couldn’t help imagining a world where she had met this female earlier. When she’d not been so disastrous and had wanted someone to talk to, to laugh with. 

But Nesta knew... There had never been a time like that. She had never been soft. 

“What language is it?” Nesta asked in spite of wandering thoughts. For she had not seen such a language before. The letters curving into loops and lines. Such beautiful print for how harsh Illyrians seemed to her. 

“It’s called Divumar.” Emerie replied, shutting the book with a thump and passing it back to her. “It means... voice of the sky people. Roughly—In the Common Tongue.” 

“Can you teach me to read it?” Nesta asked, her voice edged with enough excitement she could barely hold it in. Just the word _Divumar_ made Nesta want to float in space and she repeated it silently to herself. How amazing it must have been to be free amongst the clouds, so much that the language sounded holy to her ears. 

But it was not freedom that had trailed after Emerie, as she went to stand near the window. The snow burdening the dirt. Her wings drooping to the ground. 

“Why did you come back?” She asked, her voice reticent and small. 

Nesta could only knock her fingers against the counter. The sound pounding in her ears. She’d never been good with talking, even now as out of practice as she was. Her sisters made friends so easily and Nesta couldn't very well now embody sweet, pretty Elain who only needed to bat her lashes, or Feyre whose laugh made people join in. 

Even her sister’s rambunctious, elusive friends were able to hold on to each other. Mor with her bright, happy gaze. Too much like the sun Nesta had wanted to hold a hand across her face and shield herself away. Rhys—she'd wanted to roll her eyes at. Her sister’s mate much too flashy and extreme. Much too pig-headed, too, she’d come to learn. And Azriel had been quiet, studious, veiled in ways that Nesta could understand, but could not empathize with. She was sure it could not be easy making friends with him. 

No, Nesta had only one person she’d called a friend—or someone close enough to visit—and Nesta had taught Amren to hate her too. She was so good at being cold most days. 

_Emerie_ was not like Amren, though. Not like the Inner Circle, or Feyre or Elain... Not like any of them because _no one_ _knew her at all._

The thought made Nesta want to keep her—hide her away from the Inner Circle’s antics, from their judging stares, their obligatory smiles. The one person who was similar to her in ways she had only begun to imagine, who would know her and not hate. 

But Nesta had to win her over first and she thought of Cassian in that moment. Though on instinct she wanted to curse his name, she’d seen the way he acted. People liked him, she considered. Always teasing, hiding away everything he felt in the brightness of his grin. 

She could do that, she supposed. She could laugh to cover heartbreaks, smile to cover fear... 

“It must have been the delightful company,” Nesta joked, her voice strained and forced. 

Emerie was not amused. Her mouth set in a stern line and Nesta had to force herself not to back away into a corner somewhere. No, she would keep her head raised until the final moment. 

Nesta shrugged, gulping down the insecurity like a scratch in her throat. 

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” She spoke, her words so quiet Emerie wouldn’t have heard them had she not been fae. Nesta almost wished she wasn’t. 

“I can’t help you read it.” Emerie answered in turn, “I don’t know how.” 

“To read?” 

Emerie shook her head, “Not even in the common tongue.” 

Nesta didn’t know what to say as Emerie shuffled back and forth, her hand clenched around the cream-colored apron. She turned over the book in her hands, the pages some of her finest jewels and Emerie watched her, a touch of envy in those furrowed brows. 

Stories had been her solace all these years. The voices, her many friends. It had always seemed a shame that she couldn’t see what worlds lied beyond the sea, but Nesta had books at least. Her world had not been so small. 

The deep sorrow in her bones rivaled the feeling of when Feyre told her the same. A heavy weight like sigh drawing from every crevice. Her sister could not share in her joy, and Nesta didn’t remember ever offering her the chance. All the stories lost in their poverty. 

There was no beautiful way to say she was sorry for their lives, that there were so many ways that freedom could be taken away from them. Starting from the first story to the simplest cut. 

So instead, Nesta extended a hand, Emerie looking at it. A strange proposition in the midst of them that Nesta wasn’t exactly sure she was making. 

“Even exchange of services.” She said, smiling as the Illyrian reached out cautiously. “You teach me to speak and I’ll teach you to read.” 

~

Nesta stood outside the tent when two Illyrians were taken into the infirmary. Carried by a group of males, they were lugged through the open, awaiting tent. They groaned charnel tunes, and Nesta smelled the blood before she saw it drip two trails in the perfect snow. 

The wind blew harsh around them as if the sky, itself, knew who had made the wreckage, but the Illyrians paid no mind. One simply commanding orders as another nodded swiftly, hitching the male’s body up higher. 

Nesta stepped far away. 

The first male, clothed in leathers and fur, looked as pale as the winter morning. His foot pouring blood where it was caught in a trap, the mechanics still biting away at his limb. The second, though not making as much noise, hung dazed in his ragged clothing. His eyes empty and lost. Nesta had to cover her mouth as she took in the arrows logged into his back. His wings torn in places that brought back bad memories. 

She wanted to throw up, wanted to huddle in the corner and rock herself as she closed her eyes. The picture of broken limbs and snapped necks, and headless bodies following her even now. 

But Nesta did none of those things. She merely stood there, watching as she blinked. The world slowing down enough that even the noise was silenced. 

She took a seat, the stool still planted by the entrance way, and picked up the book again. The words for _plant, herb_ , and _healing_ still floating through her mind . She repeated the words . _Nabata._ _Traven, and_ _saluber._ _Nabata. Traven, and saluber._

It wasn’t long before the space was quiet again, the wind howling but unable to reach her where she sat. Nesta pointedly ignored the shouts from inside the tent, pretending that it was covered by music. The notes playing some tune she could barely remember. 

She was lost to it all. 

Until Ira walked out the room… a towel tinged pink in her hands. Nesta stood straighter at the female who grimaced but did not shy away from her gaze. 

“You,” She pointed, her wings flaring and wide. Her back straight and indignant. She tapped her foot on the ground and Nesta thought she saw regret in her eyes, but Ira still parted the tent flap. “ _Do no_ _t_ get in the way.” 

Nesta simply pursed her lips, raised her nose dismissively and followed her inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been pretty good about writing these chapters with the edits and now this chapter so I'm going to say expect an update every week on Tuesday/Wednesday. 
> 
> Please leave a comment and kudos! I love reading stuff y'all say. Oh also Azriel's in the next chapter and more of Cassian's POV so that'll be fun!
> 
> Tumblr: Vidalinav


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you didn’t think I was going to meet my Tuesday/Wednesday update deadline! I for sure didn’t think so.

“Rhys wants a detailed report in two weeks.” Azriel noted, setting the box of this week’s supplies on the counter. Cassian eyed it with impatience, his stomach rumbling at the prospect of food. He’d hoped Nuala and Cerridwen had missed him enough to put a dessert or two in the contents. Maybe a few extra steaks for dinner this week. Mother knows he’d missed Velaris’s food.

Azriel rolled his eyes as he stepped back from the table, giving a wide girth for Cassian to trample past. It was such a Mor-like thing to do, Cassian wanted to ask if he’d been spending more time with her now that he was gone but thought better of it. No sense in touching on subjects that might make Azriel run back quickly when Cassian wished he’d stay longer.

He was not ashamed to say he’d missed his brother.

“He says that we’ve given the clans enough time making a ruckus, and it’s about time they remember who their high lord is.”

Cassian huffed a laugh at the words. Leave it to Rhys to be dramatic even in messages.

“What does little Rhysie want me to do about it then?”

Azriel shrugged, his wings rising slightly as if they too didn’t know what to make of Rhysand’s command.

“I’d like to imagine that’s up to you, but who knows what he’s planned.” Azriel spoke, his words strait-laced and dismissive. “Rhys says he wants Kallon dealt with before the Rite this year.”

“No shit, but why does it have to be so soon? It’s not like I’ve been sitting on my ass.”

Cassian understood the urgency, of course. The longer this went on, the worse the situation would be and right now it was on attainable levels. Rhys called for civility. Cassian would abide of course and so would Azriel whether he liked it or not, but Cassian knew exactly what Azriel would have done in his place. So Cassian was not surprised at his nonchalant tone.

“With the games coming up, Rhys thinks that this will be the perfect time to stop any more speak of rebellion. He’s giving you twelve days—”

“You just said two weeks!”

“He thinks the momentum will give you an edge.”

Cassian rolled his eyes and was about to tell Azriel exactly what he _planned to give_ Rhys, but Azriel straightened. His shadows twisting around his arms. Not being one to take any of Az’s suspicions lightly, Cassian braced himself for the unknown threat.

Well, until he heard the door slam shut.

Nesta walked past them, those braids of hers tucked into a wool hat. Her nose was red, and her cheeks were blushing. But her eyes were as callous as the moon.

Cassian stepped towards her without a thought, “I left a cup of tea on the table.”

Cassian watched as Azriel lifted a hand in greeting and Nesta nodded slightly, but to him, she did not acknowledge. The gesture made his temper flare and one of his wings rose to cover Azriel in her line of sight.

Nesta jeered, her head cocking slightly before she dismissed him with a cold turn of a shoulder. 

Azriel tilted his head towards the female who headed for her room, the door shutting with a soft click. “I take it it’s not going well.”

Cassian grunted out a reply. _No, it had not been going well_ , he wanted to say. _It had been far from well. A fucking disaster._

Azriel sensing the mood change, started opening the box. “Elain made sweets for her and packed a few books.”

“And Feyre?”

Azriel shrugged. “I didn’t open the box. Elain just caught me before I left and told me to bring them to her.”

_Liar,_ he wanted to say. Like those shadows of his hadn’t told him exactly what was inside and who exactly had packed each item. But, Cassian decided against arguing about it.

“And how are the sisters doing?” He asked.

Az shrugged. “As well as they can, I suppose. As well as all of us.”

“That’s not very specific.”

Azriel pulled out a box of sweets and Cassian grinned, swearing he’d find gifts to repay Cerridwen and Nuala’s kindness.

“What do you want me to say? I’ve barely been at the house since you've left. Mor’s been in between her estate and the human lands. Rhys is always with Feyre doing something or other..”

_Something or other, indeed._

“Glad to know you’re all empty without me.” He said, only half joking.

Azriel gave him a mocking smile.

Together they pulled the rest of the contents out of the box. Steaks, luckily, _had_ been included. Along with breads, spices, notes, and candles. There were things for Nesta, too. Books that Nesta probably wouldn’t read and clothes that she definitely wouldn’t wear. Because she hadn’t the last few weeks her sisters had sent them over.

It seemed that Nesta was set on making all of them pay for bringing her here.

Azriel took a deep breath.

“Advice?” He asked softly.

“For me or for you?” Cassian grumbled. Az only gave him a look.

He knew what that meant.

“Ask her to go with you.” Cassian groaned at the idea, but Azriel silenced him, “or the next time I come, I’m going to make sure this box is filled with everything you hate.”

Cassian slapped a hand over his eyes but conceded. He thought of all the ways Nesta could learn how to castrate him in the next 24 hours. She already knew where he slept.

_A terrible fucking disaster,_ he thought.

~

It always seemed to snow in Illyria. Sleeping mountains under blankets of sterile white. Nesta wanted to grab the pots from the kitchen and bang them as she stomped around. Wake up, wake up, she wanted to yell. 

Giants, Nesta imagined shouting. Sleeping, slumbering giants made of stone. _Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!_

But Nesta did not yell the words from the living room hallway and they did not blink their tired, beady eyes. In fact, the snow seemed to come in harder as she watched from the window. A reminder, she thought, that only the dead and the dormant remained in Windhaven’s eternal winter.

Nesta swiped the glass, her hands scrunching at the cold. The puffs of her breath clearing patches of frost. She could just envision her feet sinking to the ground. One step and then another. Her body shuddering at phantom shivers.

“I can take you to town if you want.”

Nesta stood taller at the rough tone.

“I thought you left already,” She heard herself say.

Cassian’s footsteps pressed into the spines of the floorboard and it creaked as he stepped. Nesta could only close her eyes. The vision of legs… and arms… and severed heads and white—white like bone and snow and bloodless faces and the outline of his eyes as he lied beneath her. 

Nesta curled her hand on the window, the urge to push through the glass almost too much.

“I was waiting for you.” He replied, a thousand pieces of glass scratching at his throat. She could hear the tapping of his foot and Nesta wondered if that was what he always sounded like in the morning. Rough from heavy sleep.

She didn’t want to look at him and try as she might Nesta wanted to resist, but her eyes moved and her shoulders moved, and just like all of the other times, her body looked without permission. Her hands itching to touch him as he stood plain in Illyrian leathers. Nesta dug her nails into her palm.

She hated him, Nesta reminded herself. She hoped he suffered.

But half of her brain wanted to chastise her for such a thought.

_No, you don’t_ , it argued.

His hair was tied in bun at the base of his neck and a belt sat at his waist. His leathers fit well, Nesta noted, because she could see the outline of his muscles indented in the fabric and… he was tall. He had always been tall but he stood looming and heavy in front of the hall that led to the front door.

_Hulking size was right._

She finally met his gaze and Nesta was annoyed to find that bright, unwelcome gleam and that small tilt of his brow. As if he knew exactly what she was looking at and was satisfied that she’d indeed liked what she saw. 

Nesta wanted to grab one of the brown accent pillows and throw it at his head.

“You should have just left,” she fumed, his figure stepping back only slightly as she brushed past him heading toward the dining room.

Nesta took her coat and her gloves from where she had placed them on the table.

The gloves reached her elbows and every time she put them on, she thought of those days where her problems were reduced to something as small and meaningless as becoming a proper young lady. All of that pompous, poshness wrapping around her fingers like silk.

“Nesta…”

She paused at her name from his lips. Such a soft word in that tired sigh.

“I don’t want to fight with you.”

Nesta laughed at that, something terribly cruel settling in the pit of her stomach. Something she felt in her chest, that burned her lungs and made her whole-body tense up. 

If only he knew how much she had yearned for their arguments when she was locked in that so-called House of Wind. It had seemed like a tower then, but Nesta had been no princess and Cassian was no prince.

That anger his words caused made her do strange things and she prowled towards him, noting the way he sized her up. His wings growing taller and taller. She raised a brow, as she set a hand on his chest. Her head lowering as she stared at him through her lashes.

_He_ stared at her lips, and Nesta could smell that firewood scent. It brought back memories she did not want to remember.

Nesta could feel the heat of his hands as he settled them at her waist.

“You don’t want to fight?” She teased. “Well, I do.”

Nesta laughed, the sound stark and wicked to her ears.

“You want me to play nice? I won’t.”

“You want me to behave like those sycophantic fools in Velaris. I would never. I am not your lover, I am not your Night Court companions, I am not those idiots that fall at your feet.”

Nesta pulled away, noting the way his eyes hardened where hazel pooled into white. His nostrils flaring as he breathed harshly.

“You are _nothing_ , Cassian.” She hissed. “You have never been worth my time.”

She watched as he swallowed, his eyes cold and unfeeling.

Then he was gone, brushing past her and stalking towards the door with loud steps. A giant in a small house. But he looked back, towards her. Her own breath coming out in silent pants.

“At least, I have a family to go home to.” He spoke, and Nesta clenched her fists. “What do you have?”

Blood rushed to her face, her ears and Nesta stalked towards him, as he pulled the door open and let the freezing air in.

_You did this_ , she wanted to screech, the phrase tasting like blood in her mouth. Nesta wondered when she had begun to hunger for the taste. But she let the words fill her. Her body wanted all of its nourishment. 

This is your fault, Nesta wanted to sing, the sentence tasting sweet on her tongue. _You failed us_ , she heard whispered in her ears. _Feyre. Elain. You failed me._

But Nesta didn’t say those words out loud and couldn’t even if she tried. Cassian twisted back, taking a breath as he said, “I’m leaving for Ironcrest in a few days.”

“Don’t come back,” she spit, even if the words sounded foolish to her. _This was his house_.

“I hope you rot there,” Nesta corrected.

Cassian didn’t look at her, but she could see how his shoulders dipped even if the rest of him staid positively still. But he pulled the knob at last, stepping through the door that lit like a beacon in sterile, placid white.

He looked back only once, and Nesta couldn’t name exactly what she saw in that gaze, but she knew what he saw in _hers._

“Don’t forget your scarf.” He said, and Nesta raged at every syllable.

The door shut with a click and just like that Nesta was alone. The whirring wind louder than all of her thoughts. Nesta pulled her coat tighter around her, the fabric suffocating her in fur. But she left the scarf on the chair. She didn’t want to touch it at all.

She watched his figure from the window, felt the boom of his wings as he left and only then did Nesta step outside to feel the chill soak into her skin.

Wake up, Nesta whispered.

~

Ira reminded Nesta of Amren most days. She tried to pinpoint exactly what it was, between the harsh, often critical words to the pragmatic way they both talked.

Ira, though, for all her knowledge, did not invite her to learn more than what she taught, and she seldom answered any of Nesta’s questions like Amren had indulged. Nesta was reduced to cutting up bandages, to clean up duty, to dusting old books handwritten in that language she could not pronounce. It was dull work, tedious work, but Nesta didn’t complain… most days.

Today was no different as Nesta entered the tent to pick up the mop and bucket she’d left there yesterday. But Ira, anticipating her routine, held a hand out in her tracks.

“I need you to go collect these.” She said, handing her a piece of paper with names scribbled in neat cursive. Nesta grazed over the list. “You know what they look like don’t you?”

She nodded her head, the images appearing in her mind between pages and ink. _Rose hips and chickweed. Black walnuts, pine, and chicory_. She could see the list so clearly; her eyes having studied the pages for weeks.

“Good. Take this before you go,” she took a chain tacked to the wall. One lone bead hanging from the metal. “Our stock is running low and that seems to be the perfect time for Illyrians to start hurting themselves and getting into all sorts of accidents.”

She placed the chain in Nesta’s hand and it laid flat in her palm, the black clay cool against her skin.

A symbol was carved into the center and Nesta yearned to know what it meant. She wanted to ask the female, but she shooed her off.

“Get going. We don’t have all day, do we?”

Ira gave her a look of impatience, shuffling around the expansive tent without so much as a glance, busying herself with collecting herbs and material.

“Where would I go?” Nesta asked lightly, her lips pursing at the lack of knowledge. 

“Where would you expect to find plants?” She asked derisively. “You think the kitchens will have them? Maybe the blacksmiths?” The female sighed, shaking her head as if the idea of Nesta exhausted her. “Go to the forest, past the training fields. Show them the medallion and the guards will let you in.”

“You want me to go into the woods. I thought no one was allowed there.”

“You ask too many questions” Ira snapped.

Without further explanation, Ira grabbed the gloves and the scarf from her own chair, shoving them in her hands. “Off you go.”

Nesta refrained from sneering as she picked up the basket, the forest already taking up space in her mind. 

~

Against the entrance of the forest, stakes of wood crossed in a line of X’s. Nesta couldn’t see where the barrier ended or began, but the trees stayed tucked behind common lines.

Windhaven was surrounded by forests, one bleeding into the next, and she found it odd that the Illyrians had tried to contain them. Fences and guards… She half wondered if all the security was made to keep Illyrians out or… something else in. For what was stopping anyone from sneaking all the way through? She, herself, had walked past those damning woods every day.

She looked towards the skies, the color pale and ashy grey. Nesta wished to reach up, wipe a finger along the surface until baby blue shown beneath, but she traced figures instead. The Illyrians flying high above as their shadows played with the sunlight.

Two males stood tall and lean beside the entrance, and Nesta stared as they shuffled at her perusal. Walking towards them, she took the emblem and squeezed it tightly in her fist.

The taller of the two, looked past her and she studied his features. His eyes were a deep shade of brown and his golden skin was lightly dusted with freckles. He was large too, not quite as large as Cassian, but he was strong and muscular and Nesta might have had her eyes on him if she’d been someone else. Someone she hadn’t been in a long time, though she yearned for somehow.

“No one is permitted past these lines. Get back!” The male called out. The other raised a sword in front of the entrance as if he thought she might run through. Nesta wanted to scoff at the gesture.

She noticed the way they eyed her. Not with the subtly of soft sheets or the images of playthings and allure, but with a dark look. A cautious look. As if they didn’t know exactly what would pounce at them if they squirmed.

_Interesting._

She smirked softly as they stilled, stalked slowly as they rose in height for every inch lost in distance. Each of her steps a question as to what she was going to do to them. Oh, to have so much power over those who feared her.

Nesta laid out her palm, the emblem pressing against her skin.

“Your healer is requesting I go get supplies and you are standing in my way.” She said coyly.

The male to the left only glanced at his comrade, the bridge of his nose dipping in a silent language that Nesta could imagine meant _you deal with this_. She pulled the chain back, the emblem falling from her hand as she let it dangle between her fingers. She tilted her head as the male on the right shirked back, sinking into himself in answer. Nesta wanted to laugh.

“You seem to think I have all day,” She taunted, rolling her eyes, but the males did not part. They kept looking at each other, going back and forth and Nesta’s patience wore thin as she tapped her foot.

“For Mother’s sake, one of you follow me in if it makes you feel better!”

But the male to the right, at last lifted the sword from the entrance, unblocking her way. She scrambled past before he changed his mind.

The two closed off the entrance as she became enclosed around trees, and Nesta distantly heard the pretty one grumble something about her lacking manners. Nesta scoffed. _Manners of Brutes,_ she decided.

Nesta surveyed the area.

It was uncommonly dark in these woods where light escaped between fingertips. The forest tops splitting into veins, the trees pulsing. Nesta looked at the note again, though she already memorized it.

_Good thing, too_ , since she had to squint at the paper to see. Even with fae sight, she could barely make out the words.

She set the list back in the basket and sighed.

Nesta looked towards the clearing of rock and roots, spotting the chickory stalks as she walked closer. Nesta knelt to her knees, her hands brushing off snow. She plucked the roots from the ground, digging until it was easy to pull and setting it in the basket.

She’d found the pine on the evergreens, of course. An easy conquest, and sooner than later she had most of the items checked off.

The only thing left was the rosehips… She hadn’t found the rosehips.

Nesta didn’t know how far she’d gone searching for them. Before she knew it, she was circling the area and everything had looked the same to the last 30 minutes. She could barely see the sun.

Nesta shivered as the air seemed to grow colder in the dark, and she pulled her scarf closer to her. Her teeth chattering louder than anything she’d heard thus far.

It was quiet in these woods. Nesta heard her feet crunching beneath her with every step. But in her last attempt, she spotted the vibrant color tucked into wood. Stark against snow, it gleamed red and Nesta reached for it. Twisting her arm between branches where the rosehips had barely brushed her fingers. She tried again and still could not pull off more than a few.

She crouched low, aiming to some at the roots of the evergreen. The front of her dress was already soaked with snow.

Her palm brushed against the branches and it was only then that Nesta realized she was alone in the forest. She was alone in the forest and it had been quiet, and it had been dark. But it had not been this dark, and it had not been this quiet.

Nesta could feel the hair on her arms rise, shivers dancing along her spine like fingertips trailing up her neck. She scrambled to move, but she felt her body lock up and Nesta inhaled slowly as she heard a branch snap.

Nesta closed her eyes, squeezing her lids together as if the sound might disappear again, but she heard another snap a little farther away and she blinked awake. Her hands pushed off the ground without a second thought and suddenly her body was moving.

The sky grew darker still, the trees creaking as they twisted.

Nesta ran into that darkness, ran until she saw the gleam of swords and the wings of two men who would not be happy to see her.

~

“Did you grab everything?” Ira questioned as a way of greeting. She held a mortar in her hand, crushing contents that made a thick purple paste. Nesta sniffed at the smell.

She set the basket of herbs on the table as she rattled off the list. “I could only find a few rosehips, so I’ll try again tomorrow.”

Ira didn’t so much as look up from pounding away at the concoction.

“I can come back in the evenings after my shift in the kitchens is over,” Nesta continued, pulling out the plants and plucking away at the dirt.

Ira lifted her head. “You never work late.”

“I can,” she admitted, biting her lips. “For the next couple of weeks anyways.”

Ira lifted the pestle until the purple mucilage fell like paint from a brush. Pursing her lips, she eyed her squarely, and Nesta straightened at the look.

“I don’t need you in the evenings.” She drawled.

“Oh,” Nesta remarked, her fingers tracing the needles of a pine branch. “Well, if you need me though, I am free.”

“So, you’ve mentioned.”

Nesta twisted the branch in her hand, the sap sticking to skin. The scent was strong and she wiggled her nose at the smell. “I could start taking inventory… or making list of people we’ve seen.”

Ira slammed the mortar on the table and it rattled so loud, Nesta jumped.

“Illyrians.” Ira corrected firmly.

“What?”

“Not _people_. Illyrians.” The female clarified, rolling her eyes, groaning as she continued. “I’ve heard you use that word so often. We are _not_ human. And what is this free business? You’ve been firm about that schedule of yours since you’ve gotten here. A fact I find odd since you were the one who begged for a job.”

“I did not beg!” Nesta insisted, dropping the rosehips, the red scattering on the tabletop.

Ira waited for her to explain, and Nesta felt unnerved to be watched by the female who began tapping her fingers nails on the counter. One sharp flick after another.

Nesta tried hard not to twiddle her thumbs… or bite her lips like she wanted to when she got nervous. She’d knocked that habit when she was young. It was strange, she thought, for it to come out now. 

“Cassian—you know I live with him.” Nesta began to explain.

The females mouth soured. “The general—yes.”

Nesta nodded her head in agreement, “He’s going away for a while and… I don’t have anywhere to be and I have all of this time. I can work a bit longer.”

“Where is he going?” She asked abruptly.

The question caught Nesta by surprise, but she repeated the name he’d told her that morning.

“He’s going to Ironcrest.” The Illyrian echoed, reaching out a hand to grab a bottle. Nesta watched as she began to spoon the purple contents into the vial. “Marvelous. When you go, you can pick up something for me.”

Nesta’s body tensed. “But I--”

“It’ll save me a trip in the spring.” She admitted. “I’ll get you a list before you go. It shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

At Nesta’s look, Ira quipped a brow. “You asked for extra work, didn’t you?”

~

The walk back was prettier than she’d expected it’d be. The stars seemingly brighter when they were not hindered by city lights and people’s dreams. Nesta had always wondered what made up the night skies.

She distantly remembered discussing the idea under blankets and sweet giggles. Elain jumping on the bed to declare that stars were hopes manifested, all the accumulation of people’s wants and wishes. Feyre with a laugh shook her head. No, stars were the friends of the moon, she said in that innocent way of hers. So many to shine, so that the moon would never be lonely.

Nesta had not said anything. She was far too logical for that. She needed to research more—find every word hidden in anthologies, alphabetized by _S_ for star or perhaps _A_ for astral planes, or _C_ for constellations… celestial… cosmic… She couldn’t find an answer that satisfied her without proof so she laid back, her head hitting the pillow as her father smiled waxing crescents.

_The stars are made of fire_ , he’d said, tucking the girls in one by one. Feyre at her right and Elain at her left because they still never wanted to sleep alone. _It is why they shine so bright and it is why they will keep on shining—like the flickering flame of a candle. To light our way in the dark._

Nesta had held onto those words.

Her father had wanted them to fall asleep to pretty answers, but the questions had danced in her mind, rattling like jumping beans in all corners. How would the stars burn? She wanted to ask. If they were indeed made of fire like her father had said, what caused the fire for they were not made of wood? And if they did burn what would happen when the fire ran out as every fire had before?

But her father, seeing her look, had merely kissed her forehead. A good night to stop those sleepless, ceaseless thoughts of hers and all that would beat across her mind until she was satisfied with an answer.

Nesta couldn’t imagine the stars being made of fire now when they glittered like moving silver in kaleidoscope colors. She didn’t understand how Velaris could be named the City of Starlight, when the residents didn't see this view. Nesta was sure they’d agree had they stood on these mountaintops and snowy plains.

She’d gotten use to the trek, as long as it was. Learned to be excited for it. A moment where she could be by herself, thinking nothing at all.

But Nesta was not alone tonight, where the stars blinked their beady eyes above her. They watched her… and something else did too.

Nesta looked to the unmarked path, the halfway point between Windhaven and the cabin. Too long to run in either directions, she thought.

Standing in the middle of the snow, a cat sat lazily in her way, blinking at her with bright blue eyes. Its fur was orange. Long, and thick. With puffs of white at the chest, and Nesta didn’t know what to make of the creature, whose tail swished back and forth. A curling finger, she imagined, coaxing her forward.

Nesta looked beyond it and then looked behind herself. _Too far indeed._

She tried to shoosh it away, flapping her hands forward and hissing at it. But the cat blinked softly, tilting its head at her as if she _were_ the one that didn’t belong, not itself who appeared out of thin air.

Nesta decided then to walk around it. It was just a cat, she thought.

_Just a cat, just a cat, just a cat._ She repeated.

Only when she’d past it, it’s body twisting to look at her, only when she was sure she was far away, did Nesta turn to survey it again. She jumped as the cat stood beside her.

Nesta stepped once more, and she watched as it did the same. She stopped and it stopped. She walked and it walked. Nesta made motion run, but the cat picked up speed, running alongside her.

Nesta gave up trying to shoosh it away, but that didn’t stop her from watching every swoosh of its tail and counting every time it tried to rub against her. The cat simply trotted in step.

When she reached the cabin, Nesta noticing the lights, rolled her eyes, slumping forward as she kicked up the snow. The cat meowed as the snow hit its face, but Nesta paid no mind.

Cassian was standing in the door frame, his stance wide and open, and she remembered that time across the wall. Her knee hitting the most sensitive parts of him. Nesta doubted she could get away with it now, but he was asking for it she thought, with that stance alone.

_Hulking_ , indeed.

Nesta looked back to the cat, wondering exactly what _it_ thought about this male who stood in their way, but when her gaze finally landed on the snow beside her, the cat was gone. She twisted around, combing the field and the forest surrounding, and nothing. Just as the cat appeared, it had vanished. Into thin air.

Cassian squinted his eyes at her, wanting to see what she saw. Nesta had to restrain herself from grumbling, thinking of orange fur and blue eyes.

_Coward,_ she thought.

~

Nesta looked back to the pathway and Cassian squinted his eyes to see what had caught her attention. He watched her as she shook her head and looked back at him. Her once serene face swiftly changing to that _You are dead_ look.

“What were you—”

“Is there a reason you're standing in the doorway like a psycho?” She hissed. Cassian stepped away from the door, Nesta brushing past him. He had to try to maintain some figment of composure as he caught a whiff of her scent. Fresh air and lavender.

She caught Azriel’s gaze and Cassian could feel the uneasiness rise. Her eyes squinting at the sight of the two of them conversing in the kitchen, entering her space, pushing the limits she had set in their time here. Azriel hadn’t left like she probably hoped, a reminder that she could not run from any life she’d left behind.

Cassian drifted in front of her, meeting that murderous look. 

“I’m leaving for Ironcrest in a few days,” He repeated as he had that morning. Nesta tilted a fine-groomed brow. “And since you don’t want to come with me, Azriel is going to stay with you until I get back.” 

“Who said I didn’t want to go?” She voiced flatly. Cassian met her stare, the blue of her eyes a sterile, pale color.

He looked back at Azriel slowly, unsure and a bit confused. His brother merely lifting a shoulder. 

“You said this morning that—”

“And now I’m saying I’m going with you.” Nesta said quickly, her words ringing and loud. “Is that not clear? Or are you going to say I can’t?”

Cassian gulped his impatience down, his eyes closing for a moment and the opening again. Who was this female? He wanted to ask aloud as Nesta crossed her arms.

Her cheeks were still red from the cold, her neck still flushed from the heat of the house and perhaps all of that anger that seemed to simmer in her veins, coat her skin, keep her alive, he thought, because he’d not seen her live without it.

In another time, it might have been fun to see all the parts of her that bloomed that pretty red, but now... it was starting to eat away at him in ways he couldn’t satisfy.

“We leave the day after tomorrow,” He managed to grit out, his teeth rattling with restraint.

Pleased with the answer, Nesta took one last look at him, gave one last look to Azriel behind. As if she dismissed them from her presence. As if this was her castle to do so.

She stepped lightly away and when Cassian heard the click of her door slamming shut, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Cassian sighed, his wings falling in exasperation.

Azriel simply laid a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cassian and Nesta’s relationship is very slow in this fic as with any fic that I have ever written. I just don’t think they can really get together without a whole bunch of scenes in between, maybe whole books even. Authenticity is the game I play always. Also, I wanted their narratives to sound different, so that’s why Nesta’s is sometimes a lot more introspective and descriptive than Cassian’s may be, which may change a little bit as the story progresses. 
> 
> I’ll edit this later too, my priority was just posting it…
> 
> Comment and kudos if you enjoy this fic and you are anxious to get another chapter! We’ll be in Ironcrest in the next one and maybe we’ll see some Illyrian celebrations… and perhaps Cassian and Nesta start the process of becoming not enemies!
> 
> tumblr: vidalinav


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nesta and Cassian visit the Ironcrest clan and are forced into close quarters ft. an Illyrian wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not proud of this chapter, so I will edit it tomorrow. I just can't stand to look at it anymore and I am trying to keep with my update schedule, since it's the only way I can write on a regular basis really.

Nesta scowled as Cassian set her down on the platform, crossing her arms as a permanent fissure took up space between her brows.

“Don’t touch me.” She said, patting the skirts of her gown with one hand as she tried to carry a basket full of exotic fruit with the other. Delicious reds, vibrant greens, and some that smelled of candy. The scent made her gag through the flight.

Cassian rolled his eyes, sighing dramatically as Nesta glared. But he grabbed the handle of the basket before she could take a step forward. 

“Stop that,” She grumbled, swatting him away, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he moved to face her, blocking her view of what waited beyond him. 

“Nesta, listen.” Cassian said his voice lowering. “I know you’re intent on making everything difficult for all of us, and you have the tendency to run off to Mother knows where, but _here_ , I need you to stay close to me.”

At the words, Nesta wanted to tell him off, imagined kicking him between the knees like that day many moons ago. But Nesta saw the look he gave her, the red of his cheeks blooming to full color.

He was _angry—_ angry enough that he spouted curses without even opening his mouth.

She saw it in his eyes. _The hatred burning._

Nesta nodded her head, and Cassian, at her assent, turned to face the Illyrians.

The rigid males were gathered in the town square, the space situated between the residents of the Ironcrest Clan. Unlike Windhaven, most of the small city had been occupied by buildings instead of tents. Some two or three stories in height. Their triangular roofs ran up the mountain like pictographic trees on a map and there was hardly any space between each hut.

_Brown_. The city was brown and painted with mud-ridden snow. In the back of her head, she thought she heard Elain’s voice, _you can always find something beautiful if you look hard enough._ Nesta could not see beauty where there was none.

The Illyrians were lined up as Cassian stepped ahead of Nesta. A male, she could only assume was the camp lord, raised a stern hand. He was stout, with a goatee made of wisps of grey. He stared at them harshly, as Cassian’s wings almost seemed to rise to full height.

Nesta wanted to snort at the action. She’d read in a book once that when birds felt threatened, they brushed up their feathers to antagonize, and when they wanted to mate, those feathers would flutter open so that all the colors would be displayed in its full glory.

_He was peacocking_ , Nesta chortled silently.

“The High Lord sends his greetings,” Cassian announced, the words so formal for the puffed-up bat she’d always seen. “He regrets that he can’t make the trip himself.”

“Too busy to do his job?” Another male inquired. A young man by her standards, that drew up short to Cassian’s impressive height. He was lanky, certainly not as big as Cassian’s physique, but he was well-muscled and built strong. 

He was handsome, she supposed, plain by fae standards, but… handsome enough.

“He has more important affairs…” Cassian glowered, “like _running a court_.”

The male sneered at that and Cassian clenched his fists. The two Illyrians bristled, Cassian looking down at the male, the male sizing him up. Nesta thought they might settle it right _here_ , in the middle of all of them watching.

She doubted the Illyrians would mind so much.

But a voice broke out from the silence, and Nesta stood on her toes, her neck reaching to see a male wading through the crowd. The lines parting for him.

“Now. Now. Our High Lord is busy settling the conditions of the state. We were in a war after all.” 

To Nesta, the male looked like Father Time. Sleepy and white. His skin pale and grey. His hair seeming to be dipped in winter. For some reason, looking at him made Nesta want to yawn, and she imagined falling asleep to the rhythm of clock hands turning. 

Cassian dipped his head at the male who extended a solemn hand, “Lord Ymran.”

“General,” the male bowed, his voice light and eager. 

Cassian turned towards Nesta, his hand casually drawing her forward.

The Illyrians did not so much as look at the female who emerged through the crowd, her head buried low in her arms. She was pregnant, Nesta noticed, but she moved quickly. Nesta passed the basket to her as she bowed her head and remained quiet beside them. 

“Our High Lord offers a token of appreciation for our stay and in regret of not offering greetings, himself, during Solstice.”

“So, he sends his dog in his stead? Tell me general, what’s it like sitting on his lap and licking up his leftover scraps,” The young Illyrian said, sneering as he eyed Nesta. 

Nesta could feel a tremor in her spine at the words. A deep roar like sound echoing in her mind, that surprised even her.

Cassian stepped closer and the camp lord, perhaps remembering where they were last year, remembered what they saw, raised a hand to the young male who would not be consoled.

“Kallon,” the camp lord warned.

Switching his attention to Cassian, he forced a grin. “How long do you intend on staying?”

“Until what we’ve set out for is accomplished,” Cassian answered vaguely.

“I’m afraid we have not made up a residence for you both,” Lord Ymran said, sizing up Nesta curiously.

As if on cue, the rest of the males did too, looking her over and under and somehow in between. She wanted a bath from all the looks that stared hungrily, and maybe some cleansing oil for the sneers. But Nesta did not shy away from their gaze, a fact she saw eat at Lord Ymran, whose brow twitched slightly.

“All of our houses are otherwise occupied.”

Cassian grabbed her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers as Nesta stared at him with subdued shock.

“We’ll find our way.” He said sternly, without looking at her.

The males began to disperse. But Cassian didn’t let go of her hand.

Nesta did not ask questions, preferring to save them until all of them had left. Except Lord Ymran, Kallon, and the camp lord would not leave. They stayed, standing as if Cassian himself had no right to dismiss them, as if they did not follow his orders.

_A wall of Illyrians_ , she wanted to call the image. One segment of a fence. Barricaded by wings and blundering egos. It was Cassian who eventually submitted, pulling Nesta with him until he managed a distance beyond fae ears.

“Fuck,” Cassian yelled, swearing a list of Illyrian expletives she made sure to remember so Emerie could explain them to her later.

Nesta merely rolled her eyes as he punched at a pile of snow. 

~

“You raging buffoon,” She spoke, “Stop pulling me.”

“You walk so slow in those dresses,” Cassian goaded, continuing his hike through the village.

Most of the houses they past seemed empty compared to the hustle and bustle of Windhaven. There were no lights making way for shadowy figures. All of the lights were out. Nesta counted more than one window shut by thick curtains.

It was a ghost town. Quiet and eerie. Existence trapped behind memories and door frames and four wooden walls. It had her grasping for any signs of life.

Where was the fire? Where was the smoke?

“It’s not my fault you have legs as long as tree trunks,” She roared.

“Wouldn’t be an issue if you weren’t so stubborn about flying!”

Flying had quickly become a debate between the two. Though Cassian boasted she would become used to it sooner than later, that he flew gentler and with a greater care than his brothers, Nesta wasn’t at all convinced. She had asked to stop many times during the trip, puking behind bushes and trees. She wasn’t so keen on trying it again.

“You said it was only a block away!” Nesta yelled. 

“So!” Cassian replied indignantly, his voice getting higher as he got more upset. _That was hardly her fault!_ Nesta thought, pulling her hand away from his grasp.

“ _So_ , a block away is walking distance,” She scoffed. “You’re just pissy that you lost.”

At his inquiring look, Nesta continued. “That little standoff you all had…”

He knew what she was talking about, of course. Nesta could see it in the way his nose scrunched up and his jaw clenched tightly.

“There was nothing to win,” Cassian dismissed, whipping forward as his wings almost hit her.

Nesta barely missed smacking them away.

“There is always something to win.”

But Cassian ignored her, stepping up to a building that was larger than the rest.

Like many of the other houses she noticed, a purple plant hung from the door, nailed to the wood in some omen that Nesta could only describe as aggravating. _You don’t know what we are_ , the plant seemed to say. _Even after all this time reading, you still know nothing_.

She had a vague inclination to ask Cassian, even if it was beyond her better judgement, but he was already racing inside.

Nesta shook her head, muttering the words _childish_ and _fool._

She found him at the counter. An Illyrian flipping through a large book as Cassian spoke.

“I’m afraid most of our rooms are filled,” Nesta heard her say, though no regret filled her voice. “There’s a wedding this evening.”

The female gestured to the rich fabrics covering the walls and Nesta’s gaze trailed over the deep pinks and dark purples, the patterned oranges twisting their way up the fireplace, the door frames, and all of the tables filling up the warm space.

“I assume you and your wife will only need one room.”

“We’re not—” Nesta was quick to protest, whipping towards the desk.

“Yes. One room will be fine,” Cassian answered, pulling out a bag of coins that jostled on the countertop. The Innkeeper eyed it hungrily and Nesta wanted to snatch it away, demanding that the female recognize them as sworn enemies and not matrimonially tied.

In a series of what felt to be a cosmic joke, one room was not the worst outcome she’d find as they opened the door to their room.

Inside, covered with an abundance of furs, was a bed.

_One_ bed. 

Cassian snorted at her look, his lips raising to one side as he held in a laugh.

Nesta ignored him, walking past and dropping her bag on the floor. She kicked it under the bed lest Cassian trip and go sprawling on top of her in the tiny room.

Cassian plopped on the mattress and Nesta grimaced at his shoes laying on the soft throws. He tucked his hands beneath his head and lounged. Grinning teasingly as he looked her over.

“I am not sleeping with you,” She warned.

Cassian laughed, “As if you’d get that honor.”

“You think too highly of yourself.”

“And you don’t?” He taunted.

Nesta ignored him, changing the subject in an effort to secure a victory.

“Who was that Illyrian? Lord Ymran.”

Cassian sat up suddenly serious and Nesta smirked inwardly at the win. “An old lord.”

“And his son?”

“Lord Ovis and the younger one is _his_ son Kallon. But he’s not a lord,” Cassian grumbled. “Not yet.”

Nesta grabbed a sweater from her bag, folding it and setting it in one of the drawers.

“Lord Ymran seems… respectable enough.”

“He’s not.” Cassian remarked, not elaborating further.

Nesta wondered what he meant, but Cassian kicked off his boots closing his eyes as he leaned back into one of the many pillows.

“You’re sleeping on the floor.” Nesta asserted haughtily.

~

Cassian had left before her, but not without some convincing. She’d told him she’d wanted to change. He so helpfully remarked that he wasn’t stopping her. After two glares and _three_ smart retorts, Cassian had left for the training fields. Nesta hadn’t asked where those were. 

She took the note Ira left her from her notebook, reading each letter in her perfect script. The name of each plant blooming behind her eyes. She knew three of them in Illyrian. _Elleborum_ for the hellebore flower _, iglika_ for primrose _,_ and _podsen_ for the snowdrop’s droopy petals _._

Ira had mentioned a shop. Hard to find at first, but easy enough for someone as stubborn as Nesta. She’d asked the innkeeper if she’d known this shop, but the female had raised a nose and rudely said that if there was such a place Nesta certainly had no business going to it.

Her _help_ had left Nesta with little option, but to walk around, scouring the village herself.

Two hours later she’d yet to find the shop, but oh did she find the training fields.

Sweat dripped down Cassian’s back, and Nesta tried not to crumble the paper in her hands as she took in his shirtless form. His tattoos crawled down his back like a finger running down his spine and Nesta swallowed lightly. Some voice in her head chastising him for being shirtless in the middle of winter. 

She watched as he tumbled with another male in the ring, the Illyrian raising his fist as Cassian punched from below, kicking him so far the male rammed into a set of wooden planks set out for seating. Another male entered the ring and though he lunged at Cassian, he was quick to deflect. The end of his palm going straight to the male’s nose.

Nesta blinked at the aggression, trying not to wince at the splattered blood. Cassian must have sensed her there because he looked back and grinned defiantly. His canines bright and dangerous.

At his stare, Nesta yawned, tapping her mouth as if she’d seem much more impressive things.

His eyes burned at that, and Nesta smirked playfully, dipping her head in mocking salutations as another male came running from behind, kicking out his legs as Cassian fell and they carried on with their ruckus in the rings.

She continued on her way, kicking up her boots as she counted all the buildings.

There were fifteen before the mountain had skewed upwards, twelve on the upper level. Seven as the height grew higher, and none of the businesses had the letters she could draw in her sleep, that Nesta had come to associate with infirmary, plants, herbs or even the word shop.

She gave up after house thirty-five, her shoulders slumping through the inn’s doorway. Her stomach rumbled at the smell of baked bread, and it was only then Nesta realized she’d missed dinner. 

Nesta blinked at the changed scene before her, twisting her head to peer behind her as if she’d entered the wrong building. 

The place had only been half decorated when Nesta left, but now… Silk woven tapestries covered the walls and bundles of fabric fell in every corner, so much that Nesta felt entrapped by the purple and orange glow. She was in the middle of a pillow fort, she felt, rather than an inn turned wedding hall.

Nesta followed the colors down a narrow hall until she met an open doorway that emptied into light.

Candles glittered through the aisle and though Nesta wanted to snide at the impracticality of blushing brides burning before they said, “I do,” the romantic part of her brain took notes.

Illyrians were already gathered in their seats, talking low, their voices thrumming with joyous song.

Nesta crouched low as the music sounded and made her way to an empty seat in the back. Inconspicuous enough that no one would see her as they celebrated the couple she had yet to see. Or so Nesta thought, because the minute she sat, arching her neck to get a better view, a finger poked at her side.

Nesta yelped as Cassian shushed her.

“It’s about to start,” he whispered gruffly.

He maneuvered to sit, but his wings brushed against her hair, a talon snagging on her braids. Nesta gave him a murderous look as she patted her hair down, Cassian failing to hide his snicker.

“Shh,” Nesta answered in reply.

The groom entered from the side, walking to the podium as he made greetings to the people at front. The fabric of his wings were etched in gold paint, a collection of tiny points and whirls like Cassian’s tattoos. Nesta grasped it all, the male smiling as an older female came to bring him a wreath of magnolias.

Nesta was afraid to take a breath as the subtle strings of a mandolin started, the soft thrum of drums. _The sounds of heartbeats_ , she thought, and something more fervent—like a budding flower being dipped in sweet honey until the dew tasted of desire. _Of dreams._

The groom loved his bride, Nesta could tell by his look, had perhaps dreamt of _her_ long before the admission had been uttered from his lips.

They did not have to wait long for Nesta to see that the bride too loved the groom. A hush fell over the room as the doors opened, the procession standing at her image.

The bride’s brown skin glowed with gold; her wings as covered as the grooms. With those markings that whispered dreams in their ears. And the groom looked _happy_ , truly happy to see the female glide forward. Her smile bright enough to light the room.

Cassian didn’t utter a word beside her, and Nesta looked at him, suddenly concerned that he had stayed quiet for so long.

He only stared at her softly, his chin resting in his palm.

“The wedding is that way.” She grumbled, watching as a ribbon was twisted around the couple’s joined hands.

_What did it all mean_? Nesta wanted to know. But Cassian leaned closer, and Nesta blinked as his body neared hers, their heads so close she refused to swallow in fear that he could hear it like resounding bells.

“Red for honor…” Cassian recited; his words sweet to her ears. “Tied around the wrist for fidelity, knotted for bonds that will never be broken.”

Nesta watched as the bride grasped the chalice the priestess held towards her. Her arms, woven in bright red, reached out and she held the chalice up to the groom’s lips.

“A sip of wine for abundance, drunk from the same cup for unity. May love be overflowing.”

“My blood is your blood,” She heard the couple repeat. “My glory is your glory.”

Cassian dipped his head, his lips so close to her ear Nesta wanted to shy away, but she held herself still, holding her breath as she willed her heart to stop beating so fast.

“The tie will not be severed,” He repeated as did the couple, “for they are made of strengthened bonds. Love has won all battles.”

The priestess did not untie the knot, but rather let their wrists slip through the loops, so that when they were free the bride and the groom came together in a kiss.

Nesta’s heart swelled for them both.

“After this, they’ll burn the ribbon,” Cassian explained in hushed tones. Indeed, the priestess handed the couple a lit candle, the flame waving to and fro as it was jostled around.

“What happens next?” Nesta asked as if in a trance.

A wicked gleam settled in his gaze and Nesta immediately regretted her words.

“There’ll be a reception. Song and dance, and then they’ll fly off to some location in the mountains. Undisturbed, of course. The best part of the whole thing, I imagine.”

Nesta snorted, “How romantic.”

“How about you Nesta?” He teased, “Do you wish to be swept off your feet—fly to some unknown cabin where you’ll ravaged for hours.”

Nesta gave him a sidelong glance, as he leaned back in his chair, cool in his plain shirt and his loose pants sitting low. 

_Where did the advantage lie?_

“I think that if there were truly someone who could _ravage_ me for hours, I might skip the wedding entirely.”

Cassian huffed a laugh. “I don’t know. You strike me as the type to want the whole ceremony. Don’t tell me you’ve never planned your wedding when you were young.”

“Why? Did you?” She inquired, pursing her lips. “Now, were you the one in the dress? Or did you just like imagining someone who’d want you for more than a few hours?”

Cassian paused at the words and so did Nesta. The soft strum of the mandolin melting away and leaving only hollow echoes in its stead. She swallowed the regret away as his gaze turned to frigid ice.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Nesta cut him off with a flare of her hand.

“Don’t bother.” She stood abruptly, the creak of the chair loud enough that Illyrians glared her way. She scowled back, looking to Cassian as her body towered over him. “I’m going to bed.” 

Nesta brushed away the magnolia petals falling as the crowd began to throw them at the blissful pair. She cut them off at the door.

At least they had each other, Nesta remedied, swatting the guilt away.

_Who did she have?_

~

It was uncommonly warm in the small room, with the heat from the kitchens wafting up. There was no need for the chimney, so Cassian had not started a fire. A fact she was both grateful for and perturbed by because the darkness seemed to make her rattle in her skin. People laughed through the walls, through the floors, and Nesta felt their voices vibrate in her bones. She could hear the sharp edge of glasses breaking, the cheers and music drifting through the wood and furs and Nesta tried not to make the bed creak as she turned, clutching the blankets to her chest.

She peered at Cassian, lying on the floor even after all of his complaints, but he turned towards her suddenly and Nesta squeezed her eyes shut, pretending to be covered by sleep’s endless throws…

When she opened them again, Cassian was staring at the ceiling, his eyes bright even in the dark. His wings tucked between the bed and the wall, one of his talons angling oddly. Nesta couldn’t imagine it was comfortable and some brave part of her, the part that had become unhindered in the darkness, wanted to tell him he could share her bed.

She quickly clutched the quilt to her mouth.

Even in all the noise, she could hear him breathing, hear the sweet rhythm of his heart beat on and on. One thump after the next. Nesta wondered if he could hear hers too or if like Feyre had once said, he’d learned to tune hers out.

The thought made her sink into the mattress, her knees coming to her chest. 

“They don’t like us here.” Cassian spoke, his voice as soft as sheets.

She caught his gaze in the moment, Cassian shifting until they lied facing each other. Nesta pretended his words were the beginning of a bedtime story, but Cassian didn’t paint worlds with his tongue. He just looked at her, waiting for her to speak.

Perhaps, she should have said something, voiced that he was wrong or agreed that he was right. 

But Nesta suddenly exhausted and heavy burdened, only turned away. She closed her eyes as she settled, tucking a hand beneath her pillow.

What could she have said anyways, she asked herself.

Why would she, Nesta probed.

But the answer had already clanged in her chest, the space hollow and unfilled. Her soul left desolate and bare.

_Empty_. 

She would not comfort him, she thought. There was no comfort for the unwanted. The unloved. They only had each other here in this dark room, and Nesta would not make him feel better when he was all she had.

And so Nesta let sleep claim her, tucking wishes into bottles, grasping stars for a tomorrow that would never come.

Cassian deserved to feel the bitterness seep into his skin.

For it had surely seeped in hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! I got sick, but I’m mostly better now! Also oof this chapter needs a lot of work. I’m going to have to edit these last few chapters i've posted. I was feeling this chapter when I first wrote it and today my brain was like nope not today. So I’m a little bit disappointed with it. But I’ll fix it eventually. At least it’s out in the world. 
> 
> Also, You’ll notice a lot of times, I have many Illyrian women being in the center of these stories. Mostly, that’s because starting off it’s Nesta’s POV and of course she’d see mostly women. But it’s also because I want to imagine Illyrian culture. And culture and society are built on the backs of women. Food, celebrations, stories, teaching, language by that extent, cultural practices. Especially in a society where men would have a specific role to be the warriors, merchants, weapon masters, business owners, the people who are sustaining every day life would be women as mundane and trapping as that might seem to maybe Cassian or Rhys or Azriel. 
> 
> Not to say that women are not disadvantaged as SJM has described, just that the way these men may see disenfranchisement, may in itself be another sort of cage. So I hope to eventually distinguish that between their two POVs. This very biased “feminist” view from Cassian who says that females need to learn to fight to gain this elusive equality and subsequent protection for themselves. And Nesta’s POV who has seen the world with a very traditional mindset of marriage, virginity, ballgowns, and poise, who has learned and experienced that those things create barriers for women. Who herself feels trapped in her body as a fae, but even before is trapped in a society she doesn’t fit in, who then learns her world is a lie and everyone in it a liar. So, personally, I would think that Nesta could see what Cassian can’t, that women are not just “doing chores.” There is some importance in child rearing, in feeding the village, in domesticity, even if they still do need to expand the rights of women. This is not a weakness, but rather one facet of power. 
> 
> This is also why I tend not to have Nesta completely dismissed by all these females either. because I feel it would be easier to infiltrate the ranks of women as a women rather than say Cassian offering his money or power or sympathy. Especially when Nesta’s character is someone who can relate so well. 
> 
> Anyways, I don’t know if that makes sense or if it’s is coming across well, and I don’t know if I should continue analyzing my own fic, but I guess let me know if that’s something y’all are interested in me continuing throughout the chapters. 
> 
> Kudos and comment… and Happy Reading! :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Nesta learns more about the Rite and Illyrian traditions, but finds out first hand what that means for the potential rebellion of the largest army in the Night Court. 
> 
> Rating: M (graphic elements and mature themes--issues related to racism, sexual assault, depictions of war and violence)
> 
> Updates every Tuesday/Wednesday (Probably Wednesday)

“I heard he’s courting Adette,” Nesta heard, the Illyrian tucked into her fur coat, leaning a head towards her friend whispering in delightful gossip.

Nesta stood on the edge of the terrain, her hands warming besides the bonfire. One of the many placed around the field for the onlookers who watched the procession. The two girls chuckled across the way, her view tucked behind the ripple of embers burning. She thought they might have been too busy chatting to notice her anyway.

“The shoemaker’s daughter!” The other one gasped lowly, “She doesn’t have a coin to her name.”

The Illyrian rolled her eyes, and Nesta blinked at the youth they displayed. Had she ever been this young? She could distantly remember Elain’s high squeals, her own harsh opinions of this or that, but if she thought deeply on it, Nesta could only make out the remnants of starvation and petty things.

“Why would she have to? She’s beautiful.” The girl answered haughtily. “I heard Adette’s already been asked by two other males and her mother’s turned them both down.”

“What does her father say about the match?”

“What every father says. My aunt says he’s practically forcing her out the door. It’s Kallon or no one.”

Nesta lifted a cup of tea to her lips, the warmth of the liquid burning her tongue, warming her chest. The glow of the heat set the Illyrians’ hair on fire, turning the dark color into auburns and maroons. Nesta thought she might have seen the light flicker in one of the girl’s eyes, but she didn’t know if it was from joy at the news or a trick of the flame dancing in her gaze.

“Wasn’t she seeing Micah?”

“The blacksmith’s son?” She remarked sardonically. “His family disowned him two spring ago for helping out with… _you know_.”

Nesta did not know, though she had some idea of what occurred two years past, the subtle scream of people burning under a cauldron’s rage. The way she said it, off handed and dismissive, made Nesta want to walk through the flames and ask out right what _you know_ meant.

“Will he compete you think?”

The Illyrian shrugged a shoulder, “He doesn’t have anything else going for him.”

Nesta lifted the mug to her lips, squinting her eyes at the two girls who laughed in their sleeves. She could hear the high-strung sound reverberate in the expansive space, and Nesta wanted to cover her ears. Like a dog whistle, it rung and pierced. Her head ached from the pitch.

Cradling her head, she leaned over the bench to set the cup down on the snow.

“He’s good for what he is,” Cassian remarked from behind her.

The cup slipped from her grasp, tipping to its side, the hot liquid spilling to the ground. Nesta sighed as the tea started to form constellations in the billowy white. 

She glared at him, “Would you stop doing that!”

“I didn’t mean to” he answered, raising his hands. His eyes were bright with ease as he took in her expression, murderous and unafraid. “Seeing as you keep refusing to train with me, I’ll save the lecture on how you should be more aware of your surroundings.”

Cassian raised his chin to the male in question and Nesta followed his gaze to where Kallon and ten other Illyrian’s were taking turns beating each other to a pulp. Truth be told, she had not been watching, choosing instead to examine the two chittering females in front of her who now sat straight, quickly looking elsewhere as she caught their eyes.

Kallon was winning by far, the glittering sword in his hands made of Illyrian steel and polished to perfection. The other males’ weapons had not been half as grand.

“Do they have to do this every year?” Nesta complained, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her coat. Even next to the fire she was freezing, and she wondered why, for a race of people who’d lived longer than at least ten human generations, they did not host these fights indoors. “Compete,” she clarified.

“Yes, every year,” Cassian nodded, sitting next to her. She heard the creak as he jostled, setting his wings so they did not lie in the snow. Nesta wanted to brush them away, suddenly feeling like she needed more room on that small, tight bench. “The games are held every mid-winter to select the warriors competing in the Blood Rite in the spring.”

Nesta set her head in her palm, watching another Illyrian use the butt of his sword to blunt Kallon in the nose. She couldn’t resist the smirk that had somehow appeared on her face.

“How do they choose who gets to go?” She asked. 

“Here, they have males compete for a spot and only send the top three. Whoever wins enough rounds will go to Windhaven. They’ll compete in archery, sword fighting,” He said, gesturing to the ring. “hand to hand combat… The ceremony usually lasts a couple of days before they decide.”

Nesta winced as she watched Kallon take on two males at once. He was skilled as far as knew, though she admitted it wasn’t much. The only thing she knew of battle was watching Cassian’s guts spill out and she could not very well use that to measure the skills of the sword.

Cassian leaned closer to her and she could feel his breath near her ear. Even if she knew it was more to keep the words, he was about to say, private between the two, Nesta still held her breath, careful not to take in the earthy scent of sap and firewood.

“Kallon is hoping to win, and _he will_ , because even if he’s the son of a lord, he doesn’t earn the respect of his title until he stands on the monolith on Ramiel. If he does at all,” Cassian added, off-handedly.

Nesta titled her head towards him. Her face close enough to see her flushed reflection in his eyes. 

“I heard…” She swallowed the apprehension down, “that only the three of you have done it.”

“ _It_ … as in standing on top of the mountain.” He inquired, his gaze gleaming. “not the only ones, but I admit there’ve been very few.”

Nesta watched as his gaze traveled down to her lips, a quick glance and then back again. But she’d seen it and he knew, because Cassian smirked, one, lone dimple appearing in his cheek. Nesta wanted to poke at it with her thumb.

She marveled at the silence in that moment, the civil conversation making their interaction light and airy. It seemed the cold weather was not bad for their fiery words, perhaps it had subdued him enough to not poke fun and had iced that wounded part of her that ached incessantly. 

“Why? Does that impress you?” He asked teasingly.

_Or not._

Nesta chose to ignore his words. “Did Lord Devlon make you participate in these competitions?”

Cassian’s grin widened at her aim to distract but appeased her anyway.

“It’s up to each camp lord to decide who gets to participate and how they’ll make that choice. Many believe only the special elite should have the right—the families from long lines of money or titles,” Cassian shrugged, staring off into the clash of swords and teeth. “Devlon, even if he’s a lord and sometimes too traditional, doesn’t care about these frivolities. He’ll let any Illyrian who thinks they’re strong enough.”

Nesta thought she admiration in the look he wore, and she was surprised, for all she’d seen were grimaces and rolling eyes when mentioning the male.

“It didn’t matter that I was born a bastard, Azriel some discarded son of a lord, or Rhysand, a half-breed with some unknown, unrivaled power. To Devlon, we were warriors—could be warriors,” He admitted. Begrudgingly, so, because his jaw clenched as if the words were hard to get out. “For that, even if on most days I want to ring his neck for making things difficult, he will always be better than them.”

He jerked his chin lowly as theirs gazes went to the males on the raised platform with their own bonfire, sequestered off from the rest of the Illyrians. Lord Ovis and Lord Ymran sat on their chairs that seemed more like thrones than casual viewing platforms. Nesta caught sight of the female from before who’d taken the basket of fruit. Even heavily pregnant, and she _was_ heavily pregnant, they made her serve them drinks and did not offer her anywhere to rest.

Nesta almost wished one of the swords would go _accidently_ flying through the air, stabbing at least one of them _horrifically_ in the eye.

“What are you supposed to do here?” Nesta asked, behind gritted teeth.

Cassian paused, chewing on his lower lip and Nesta wanted to brush her thumb against it and tell him to stop. “I am supposed to keep the camp’s in order. This one especially. It’s part of my job as being the acting general-commander.”

Nesta noted that he didn’t elaborate why this camp had become an issue, and she sighed internally. Would they never trust her?

Cassian was careful to choose his next words. “After the war—even before then—many have… questioned whether I am fit for the position.”

She could hear the gasps of the girls as the bonfire flashed. The fire swelling higher for a moment then dipping back to its original size.

“Why would they ask such a thing?” She roared, suddenly angry at anyone accusing Cassian of not doing his job.

Cassian only looked solemn, facing away from her. “Because their sons didn’t come home.”

“There was a war.” She said sternly.

“It was my job to keep them alive.”

“It is your job to protect as many as you can.” She surmised, her voice growing louder even if Cassian grabbed her wrist to lower her back down as Nesta rose to her feet. “Don’t they know what you sacrificed? What we sacrificed for—”

Nesta shook her head, distraught and a loss for words.

“They were lucky they died before the war ended. Look around! Death was a privilege.”

“Not to those who died. Not to the families who have to live without them.”

Cassian looked at her, something blooming in his eyes that Nesta couldn’t name, but she swallowed it down. He still held on to her wrist as he shushed her. His calm silence breathing air into her lungs.

Nesta blinked away the harsh burning in her eyes.

“It’s hard for them, I think... It’s hard enough when people pass, but to admit to themselves that warriors are meant to die. I think it ruins the perception. This fanciful idea of being the strongest or the fastest or the most talented with a sword.” Cassian lifted a shoulder, his lips forming a thin line. “We go to war to die. I think every soldier knows this when they step out onto that battlefield. Whichever it might be.”

“My father wasn’t a warrior.” Nesta gasped. She clenched her fists and somewhere deep in her stomach, she could feel fire burning, feel her face warm up, steam rolling through her lungs like thunder. “My sisters? No... Why do they also suffer?”

“Nesta...” Cassian began, “I’m sorry that—”

Nesta couldn’t stand the look. The regret so deep in his bones. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Stop.” Nesta clenched her jaw, her teeth aching at the impact. She could hear her heartbeat, had not learned to tune it out. It sounded like a funeral dirge. She could envision the tombstone back in Velaris, though she’d never once set foot on the land.

_Here lies Nesta’s hopes and dreams._

Failure. Father. Gone.

“Please... just stop.”

Cassian’s nostrils flared as if he might try once more, but a lankly looking boy ran up them. Cassian looked furious at the interruption.

“General... Commander... General-Commander.” He paused. At Cassian’s murderous expression, he gulped, looking down. “The Lords would like to speak with you about tonight’s council meeting...They say it’s urgent.”

Cassian grumbled, his chest rumbling with unsaid words and phrases.

Nesta took a breath. "Go.”

“But Nesta,” He began to argue, but she was through. The day had already settled lamely on her shoulders and she could not bear to carry it any longer.

“Go!” She yelled.

Cassian did, sulking as he lifted himself off the bench, and followed the young Illyrian. Nesta didn’t watch to see if he looked back or not. She supposed, he probably did. He was just that type of person to coddle a wounded stag after shooting it.

Nesta picked up the mug that lied haphazardly on the ground, tracing a chip on the handle she’d not noticed before.

She wanted to throw it a wall, but there was none she could see and so she carried it with her, holding it close as she walked away from the bonfire.

Distantly, she could hear the girls giggle.

“My brother told me they almost died for each other,” She heard one of them say.

“Do you think they’re in love?” The other asked.

Nesta tuned them out. Once again remembering what it was like to be young.

She thought of Tomas in that moment—where he must have been. She hoped he still had the scar on his cheek from where she’d hit him with that rock. The only thing she could find as she laid pinned under him.

She had not loved him. Hadn't cared for him even before then. But Nesta couldn’t help but wish she’d grabbed the rock again... Beat and plunder everything he took that day.

_Here lies Nesta’s innocence_ , his tombstone would read. _It was gone before he even made the first blow._

The memories seemed to follow her as she left the outdoor arena.

Her dreams did not comfort her as she trotted through the snow.

~

It was almost evening when she made it to the outskirts of the camp, the buildings growing less and less until all that remained were a few houses scattered about.

It must have been strange to live on a mountain, she thought. Nesta had spent so much time thinking about how Ramiel could somehow bury Windhaven, it seemed concerning that no one here had thought what the mountain would do. There was no way to plan for destruction, but it always loomed. Chaos following them around in its dark cloak looking for a chance to strike when they least expected it. A thief in the night. 

Nesta wished _she_ were a better thief. Perhaps, she could have stolen food while Feyre was galivanting through the forest, learned how to pick the pockets of those wealthy ladies she’d used to know, who raised their noses when she’d walked by; her clothes reeking of stale, dowdy water.

But _no_ , she’d prided herself on being lavish even in troubled times. Poverty may have stained her clothes, but it would not seep into her skin where gold and diamonds had glittered.

It was _that_ opinion, though, that had made them suffer, made her starve, and it was these opinions that Nesta found as she looked towards the forest floor, the opening dark and unknowing. She listened for the hoot of owls or chirp of birds but found none. Besides her thoughts, it was utterly quiet in the trees.

Still, she walked. If Nesta could not find the shop that sold thistle, dried basil, and thyme, another few plants on the list, she would go collect them herself. No matter how impossible that seemed in the middle of winter.

The forest didn’t scare her as much as the first time. Where there was no light, there were secrets hidden in plain view. Where there were pockets of sunshine, Nesta found the forest to be a perfect reading spot. The trees were thick but comforting. The wind chilly, but talkative.

_At the very least_ , it was better than being around people, she thought. The snow covered the ground where she walked, the gnarly roots poking out where the leaves had covered it and Nesta wondered if Feyre had ever felt peace hunting in the woods. She’d scorned them sure. For letting her hunt. For not making it easier. But did she secretly enjoy the thrill? Did she ever look into the field and think, had she not been starving, this might have been a hobby, a calm, peace of mind?

Nesta couldn’t imagine what Feyre would say.

She knew what _she_ would say. That no amount of peace of mind would make her hold a bow.

No amount of pleading would make her train with Cassian. No amount of love or time or regret would make her forget what the cauldron made her, or what Hybern had done to her family. Being calm? No, there was only calamity and Nesta wanted to collect it, store it in the empty space of her veins, and gulp it down as if she were swallowing a universe of stars.

Nesta looked towards the sky, the trees painting clouds where they parted. Where she thought she might have seen the burnt orange glow of a raging sunset, Nesta only saw smoke. She gripped the paper in her hands. Ira’s words faint where she’d held it in her fist.

She followed the trail as best she could. The smoke disappearing under leaves. Nesta had nearly tripped on a broken log, searching for its origin, but a few steps forward and there it would be again.

After more than a few stumbles, Nesta traced it to a cabin. 

Worn and abandoned, the brick crumbled from brown to grey. But the sign at the front, scribbled on and lazily written, contained the only word she knew how to read in Illyrian.

Tucked into curling lines, like vines crawling out towards her, tucked in between letters brushing the foliage. The root word, in all its glory, bloomed.

_Plants._

Nesta breathed in a sigh of relief.

Staring at the building, she wondered why Ira hadn’t told her that the shop she’d needed was in the forest. A ways away from the cluster of shops in the pavilion of Ironcrest’s judgmental stares. Perhaps, the female had wanted to punish her… for being annoying, stubborn, not easily dismissed. Perhaps, she’d wanted Nesta mad.

She was certainly furious as she kicked the door open _._

Four days.

_Four days_ she searched, climbing up the peaks of this blasted town.

Four days, getting hissed at by residents who couldn’t stand her walking around freely, never lowering her gaze, never following some archaic, undisclosed rules.

Four days, she’d worked harder than any week in her entire life.

All for what? A list of plants they could have had imported in from Velaris!

Nesta huffed as she entered the small store, the warmth swallowing her as it did the freezing, frigid air. _Four days of that, too._

A soft bell rang as the door slammed shut, and Nesta surveyed all inside.

Bookshelves lined all four walls. Nesta traced her fingers along dusty spines, and were there wasn’t books, all kinds of flowers grew. She’d never seen so many, even thinking back on Elain’s garden. How many types of colors did roses come in? For there were many collected in vases. How many stalks of delphinium? They stood taller than her and Nesta reached high to measure. 

Plants seemed to grow out of the floorboard, and she circled the room, only stopping as her gaze landed on a bouquet of amethyst.

In the bouquet, the deep purple flowers she’d seen attached to doors and above mantels, soaked in vase of water, along with others Nesta was not familiar with. Some white, some a dark shade of violet. Their petals twisted menacingly. They bloomed as if they were facing the sun.

Nesta reached out for one, but a cough made her jump back.

“The darkest one is wolfsbane. The white—moonflowers, and the other, the one that looks like a trumpet, is nightshade.”

Nesta turned to face the female who’d spoken. She wore a light summer fabric that Nesta found odd, even in the warmth of the room and as she stepped closer, Nesta noted that it didn’t reach her feet. Instead it crept towards her thigh in a way that made Nesta want to pull her own dress down.

Her hair, dark as midnight, was braided back and even so it went all the way to her waist and she was beautiful. Nesta wanted to roll her eyes at the thought. _All fae seemed to be beautiful._ But the female was not fae. Not in the way that she was… She looked towards her ears and found them human-like. Not at all pointed in ethereal warning.

“You sell a lot of them,” Nesta remarked slowly. Not a question, really, rather an observation of things she’d seen. 

The female shrugged, her hair swiping behind her. “The Illyrian’s have odd ideas about what lurks in these woods… and what keeps them away. Who am I to not satisfy their whims and fancies?”

Nesta held the moonflower up to her nose. It smelled of honey and sweet dreams. “You speak as if you are not Illyrian.”

“Well, I don’t have the wings do I?” She noted, looking towards her back as if to check if she indeed carried wings. She looked back towards Nesta solemnly, seemingly disappointed.

“I have a list,” Nesta spoke, setting the flower down and handing the paper to the awaiting female. She watched as her eyes trailed the page.

“You know, for as long as I’ve been working with Ira, which I admit hasn’t been long, she’s never once sent a fae.”

“I’m new,” Nesta commented. The female shrugged and started taking out baskets, pulling out plants from the floorboards as Nesta suspected. There were a million and one places to store herbs, she thought, as the not fae, not Illyrian moved around the shop.

“You are younger than I thought you’d be.”

The female snorted, glancing up at Nesta. “We look the same age.”

“I am not very old,” She remarked.

“And I am not very young.”

“How old are you?” Nesta questioned, as she was genuinely curious, and she seldom knew anyone who’d she felt comfortable enough to ask.

The female huffed a laugh, pulling out a pair of shears from a glass planter in the shape of a frog. “Ope, what are those doing there?” She chortled, setting them in her basket.

At last when she made it to the counter with a collection of Ira’s order, she peered at Nesta, her eyes sparkling.

“We all have to keep some secrets,” She answered, smiling mischievously.

Nesta opened her mouth to reply, but a voice called out from the back of the shop.

“Ruby!”

At the small tone, the female sighed.

“Ruuu-by!” It sang, increasingly loud.

“You know just take the basket,” She said, moving the batch of plants into her arms. “I owe Ira a favor so tell her it’s settled.”

The female, Ruby, Nesta assumed, rushed ahead opening the door for her, but before Nesta could follow a little boy appeared behind the curtain leading to what seemed to be an apartment in the back. His brown hair floppily fell across his eyes and he pushed it away, revealing the prettiest eyes Nesta had ever seen. Bright green, like fresh fields.

Nesta also noted the lack of pointed ears, the normalcy in his face. He could have been human, she thought, though she knew it to be impossible.

“Jamie, go to your room! I’m helping a customer.”

“But I’m hungry!”

“You just ate an hour ago,” Ruby said, placing her arms on her hips as Nesta imagined every mother did at some point.

“But that was only a snack,” The boy whined, his lips drooping down in a pout. At Ruby’s stern look, Jamie reached up to the counter, taking a jar that Nesta remembered being nettle, and peered inside.

“What’s this?” He asked curiously, sniffing the contents. Ruby rushed to take it from him as he looked up at her with big eyes. She sighed deeply, a whole world of annoyance in that one exhale. Nesta smiled softly in sympathy.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Ruby spared her a glance, giving her a tight smile and waving her off.

“Don’t be a stranger now!” She called, happily at the last moment.

Nesta chose to take the suggestion lightly. As friendly as her words had been, she was still the nameless assistant to a crass healer and she wasn’t going to stay in Ironcrest for long. Besides, most people never meant what they said, she told herself.

She rarely had ever meant what she said.

~

There was chaos in the streets.

Nesta couldn’t say she was surprised. Destruction would always find them, after all.

But the commotion was not caused by falling rocks as Nesta stood there, casually tracing the people forming a group in the center of town. The cacophony came from voices, ringing high and taut. She could hear the shouts before she could see the Illyrians they had come from. Maybe the noise had come from them all. Some harmonious, calamitous symphony.

She walked towards them, her hands reaching out for the music.

“They’ve taken our sons!” A female’s voice croaked. “They’ve taken our pride. What more will they take from us in the name of the High Lord?”

She heard yells in agreement, her vision blocked by a flurry of wings that lifted higher.

“Who has seen the reward they’ve promised?” Another shouted. “Or was it the limbs our brethren lost, the memories that haunt their vision. What reward will amend for my son being blown to pieces?”

Nesta closed her eyes, suddenly seeing wings obliterated in the recesses of her mind. Ashes, but no blood. It sprinkled around her like rain.

“Who will take care of our baby?” A female screeched. Nesta stood on her toes to see an infant being raised into the air. The child hung blinking at the crowd, wailing as he heard the shouts reach a crescendo of awful sounds. Nesta huffed. _As if the child didn’t scream because of his mother._

She pushed through the crowd, hearing the words _hey!_ And _stop pushing!_ Nesta continued until she was in the center of them. Females and males. She could not make out their faces. They blurred in unfamiliarity.

One of the females, her hair dark as night, her face covered in angry lines, pointed.

“Her!” She screamed.

Nesta only stared as the others began to look at her, too. Some sneering, some spitting on the ground near her. Nesta stepped back in repulsion. But the Illyrians stepped closer, as if they might bury her under their bodies and sweat.

“She did this to us!”

Nesta turned her gaze away, sighing slightly as her back seemed to straighten on its own accord, her chin raising in nonchalance.

“See how she mocks us.”

Nesta scoffed quietly.

“She thinks she’s better than us.”

_True,_ Nesta wanted to reply, but thought better of it.

“Her and that bastard making a mockery of this camp!”

Nesta paused at the words, some feeling nagging at her. Like an itch she couldn’t scratch. But she didn’t brush the feeling off, instead she let it ruminate—let it build.

“Some cheap _whore_ ,” She breathed, “coming to take our lives away.”

Nesta grimaced, clutching her head. “Would you stop yelling?” She spit. “You’re giving me a headache.”

One of the females, an older Illyrian who looked matronly in her long coat and her wool hat, looked outraged at her remark, shocked that she had such a casual attitude. Nesta wanted to smile, but she merely raised a brow. _Try again_ , it said.

One of the females, the youngest looking, sauntered closer, but Nesta didn't back away. She could feel all of them closing in, the heat of their bodies making her feel sticky in the furs.

“Go back where you came from,” The female seethed, the words forced out of gritted teeth. “ _human scum._ ”

“That’s enough!” Cassian roared, breaking through the crowd. His hair tied and tight, his leathers sticking to his skin as if he had just come from training.

She blinked lightly as he turned towards her, his eyes asking if she was okay. Nesta crossed her arms and gave him a look. She could have handled this. _By herself._

The group started to grumble but Cassian cut them off, circling them as he waded in the center.

“GO! All of you!” He yelled, pointedly staring at the males who had gathered. Probably marking them down for those who’d receive punishment in the form of extra drills and training. “Anyone caught here again today will suffer the High Lord’s wrath _and_ my own _.”_

“You cannot tell us where to gather, _boy_ ,” the matron scowled. If Nesta didn’t already harbor so much hatred for this female, she might have been impressed.

“Need I remind you that you have another son in my ranks,” Cassian answered, his voice leaving no room for argument.

He seemed to have made a point, for the furiosity in the female’s eyes dimmed. But Nesta knew the Illyrian wouldn’t stay that way forever, just as much as Nesta knew she could never really let go. Anger was just like that. It was a hidden wound in a healthy body. The longer it was there—the longer it didn’t heal—the sicker they became. And one day, one day soon, they’d find it to be too late to heal from their own neglect. They’d die with that pain still raging through their bodies.

But for now, it was bright and burning.

The female dipped her head, smiling mockingly. The others didn’t so much as look at them as they dispersed.

Nesta watched them go, almost sad that the fire had dulled so soon.

Cassian whipped towards her, reaching out a hand as if to grab her, but he caught himself and lowered his arm. He breathed deeply.

“Are you okay?” He asked. 

Nesta was going to begin telling him why he should have left it alone, why she didn’t need him there, why it was all his fault to begin with, but her gaze strayed to the building beside them.

Lord Ymran was there.

He did not smile at the two of them or offer them greetings. He just stood there, his wings high, his eyes glowering. Nesta wondered how much he saw; if he’d been there all along and had done nothing. Maybe, he’d also been a part of the crowd.

Cassian followed her gaze, his shoulders going taught at the male who seemed unbothered by their perusal of him.

This time Cassian did grab her. His hand held her wrist gently and her brows furrowed at the touch.

“Can we go somewhere else?” He asked, his voice lowering to a hush. For the prying ears, she assumed.

She nodded her head, and within moments he had grabbed her by the waist, and they were soaring through the smoky skies.

Nesta didn’t want to admit that she had let out a breath as the town turned into another dot on a map.

~

Cassian set her down at a clearing far from the camp and Nesta ripped towards him. The flurry of snow kicking up as she moved. Cassian didn’t want to admit that he was almost joyous she was furious. Angry Nesta meant healthy Nesta.

“This is your fault!” She yelled, her cheeks blooming into rose colored daydreams.

“My fault?” Cassian fumed, astonished at her accusation.

Nesta wagged a finger, her eyes burning behind grey-blue. “This never would have happened if you hadn’t taken me to this camp!”

“You wanted to come!”

“I never wanted to be here! I never wanted to see you again! But nooo.” She sang, her words pitching higher in imitation, “ _Oh, Nesta you need to go to Illyria because we can’t stand to see you spending our money on ale. This apartment isn’t pretty, you should move to somewhere nicer, closer to us. Those males, they don’t mean anything to you, you shouldn’t be sleeping around. It’s not healthy for you!”_

Cassian’s eyes widened as she rambled, and he waited for her to catch her breath. The red of her face trailed down her neck.

“Well you know what I like to fuck and I don’t give a _fuck_ what you say or my sisters or any of you rotten lot. I wish I had never come here and I wish I had never met you! And I wish I’d never become fae, and I wish I would have died in that cabin all those years ago!”

“Look Nesta,” Cassian had heard enough, “I know you feel like life is shit right now. But it is shit a lot of the times and you just have to accept that, because it’s not always like that. It does get better.”

“Oh! Stuff a sock in it!” Nesta roared, her hands waving dismissively. “Don’t tell me how to live my life when you don’t know jack shit about your own. Or did you forget that you’re just as alone as I am!” 

Cassian raised his hands in surrender. “You know what? I’m done. Fine. You don’t want to be here? I’m taking you back!” At the words, Nesta crossed her arms, pieces of her hair falling out of her coronet, never settling in place as the wind picked up. “You want to be happily clustered in that shitty apartment, drinking your wits away? Fine. Go head. See if I care!”

He squinted, huffing as the anger seemed to build as much as it had in Nesta. _Well, two could play that game._ “I hope someone loves you they way you deserve to be loved, _Nesta,”_ He mocked, “With all the pompous half-assery, with your mediocre feelings and your hit the wall moods. Maybe your sisters can find it in themselves to just accept you that way. Nesta, their true, loving sister.”

Cassian’s eyes stung as he stared, Nesta’s red around the edges. Her lips pursed and that bitter brightness that had taken residence in her gaze lessened into a deadly stillness.

“ _Oh_? And here, I thought you said you couldn’t understand how my sisters could love me.” 

The mountain seemed to still as the words settled around them like dust, the snow refusing to fall as if it were to afraid to be there with them.

Cassian, in a moment of utter foolishness and because of his penchant for pain, reached out to her. He was always reaching. Never getting nowhere.

Nesta didn’t even look at him as she tucked her hands in her coat, walking towards a rock where she sat, facing the field of snow and sterile silence. Cassian, knowing full well, he was stuck in this moment until she wanted to leave, took up space on another rock.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , he chastised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing Nesta being oddly protective of Cassian even if she thinks she hates him right now or has some unknown vendetta against him. I just want them to be together already but legally I am not allowed. That would be defamation of character and, to me, romance is a subtle thing. Creeping up slowly and pouncing when they least expect. 
> 
> Oh, god I also love writing them arguing. It raises my blood pressure, but fyuh it’s cathartic!
> 
> Anyways, Comment and Kudos and Happy Reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian and Nesta reach an understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so late for this update. Also, I wrote this on the fly so hopefully it’s edited well enough but who knows really. Certainly not me. 
> 
> This chapter Rating: M (Warning for mentions miscarriages/stillbirths)

Nesta felt acutely aware that she was flitting through emotions. Like she was writing her feelings on a notebook and ripping out every page. Excitement dropping behind her with neat, printed script, then sadness, then grief, something like disappointment landing at her feet. Nesta could only feel irritation at the transient moods—anger that not only was she littering but that she was wading through it all and drowning in paper cuts.

After their spat, Cassian had dropped her off at the inn and quickly flown away. Nesta huffed at the thought of him, sulking and quiet. She had felt… on top of the world at the thought of going home and _that look_ , the dark eyes and furrowed brows, that blasted look made Nesta want to roar. Suddenly guilt had unwelcomely wormed its way in, settling in her chest, and her world had gotten _that_ much smaller in the blink of an eye.

But Nesta paused short at her thoughts.

_Home?_ That was an odd way to describe the city she despised. 

On a good day, Nesta had only tolerated Velaris. All the noise had given her a headache—the people yelling, the children laughing, the endless chatter that seemed to envelop the city in a soft hum. _And the smell?_ The smell had made her nauseous. Spices, baked bread, and the Sidra. The Sidra sinking to the sea, carrying the fishy scent with it.

Nesta remembered that scent most of all, remembered wanting to laugh at that. Such a beautiful place and yet the imperfection permeated the city as much as any of the starlight, as much as any of the dreams.

But perhaps what really made Nesta reel were the people themselves.

How many times had they congratulated her on a victory won? Their smiles laced at the edge with cold, winter memories as they remembered too what war felt like. But perhaps if they remembered it like she did they would not praise her for cutting off a monster’s head, when at one point she had she wished it on all of them.

Nesta clenched her fists, bringing them up to her mouth. The warmth lasted only seconds as she breathed into them, and she cursed herself for once again forgetting her gloves.

Even now she didn’t want to say his name. In her head, she’d referred to him as _that monster_ and nothing else. She tried not to think of him, to hear the whisper of his laugh or the horror of his words. Nesta thought that if she allowed him to seep into the marrow of her bones, he’d be the actual victor of the war and not the girl who’d looked up at the sword plunged into his neck and twisted…

So Nesta refused to think of him as she trampled through the snow laced town, the buildings all covered with thick ice. She found herself wanting to find those females again, hoping that they were spewing hate and other nonsensical ideas to the impressionable young…or not so young beings of the camp.

She wanted to hear the yells, feast on the hostile anger, and let it renew her own. Let it seep into her bones so that once again she’d remember why she was here and why she was not in Velaris.

Nesta was almost near the center of town, the winding streets pulling her forward, when she noticed a form taking shape in the distance. The figure stood huddled in furs and the wind seemed to gather strength, blowing a flurry of snow her way. Nesta, in all her anger, didn’t notice that the world hadn’t been quiet that day. Waking mountains huffing out a humdrum of wind.

Nesta would have walked right past the figure, no greeting, or smiles. But she caught the extended arm, the jolt of a grimace as the… female leaned against one of the building walls. She clenched her stomach and as Nesta neared she could see that the female was pregnant. Heavily so.

It was Lord Ovis’s wife and as she hunched over, letting out a gasp, Nesta could only see the horrifying image of mucous-like blood on crisp white. 

She swallowed her distaste and ran to her.

“Don’t touch me,” the Illyrian gasped as her wings flourished out. Nesta’s hands reached out to hold her steady but the female hit them away. 

“You’re in pain,” Nesta replied derisively, noting the sweat on her brow and scent of must in her clothing.

“That’s no business of yours,” She gritted out. Nesta paused in her pursuits, giving the Illyrian a bland look and glancing to the street she’d come down from. The female would have to walk up a hill, maybe two, or… fly, though Nesta doubted she could by the looks of it.

“Where are you trying to go?”

The female yelled out in frustration, to tell her to get lost probably, but Nesta stood taller at the tone.

“Look,” Nesta demanded, the female squinting at the command. “I don’t know how much you think you can do this by yourself, but there is no one here! And I doubt there will be people trekking up these mountains when it looks like a storm is coming. So where. Are. You. Going?”

Maybe, Nesta was also a touched panicked judging from her voice but the female finally relented, grunting out an explicative Nesta was surprised to hear from this female who was always dutifully quiet.

_Alright,_ Nesta thought, _this can’t be too hard._

“The inn,” the Illyrian spoke. Nesta must have looked confused because the female rolled her eyes impatiently. “Daphne, the inn owner’s wife… she’s delivered before.”

_She has?_ Nesta remarked to herself. Nothing about that female seemed to scream midwife, with her fake smile, the tight skin of her cheeks so forced Nesta thought it might have hurt to act pleasant. Midwives should have been stern but kind, who radiated calm. Nothing was peaceful about that female who wouldn’t even give her directions.

Nesta resisted laughing in outright shock.

“The inn it is then,” Nesta confirmed with a nod of her head, holding on to the Illyrian as she leaned against her. The wings were heavier than she thought, and they dragged behind, making the walk infinitely harder in the snow.

But they arrived with little complaint, Nesta huffing almost as much as the female who kept a level-head for someone about to give birth. She doubted she’d act the same if it was her.

As Nesta pulled open the door, Daphne rushed forward at the sight of the female, forcing Nesta away.

Nesta scoffed at the small attack. _As if she walked herself up that hill!_

“You must be freezing! Let’s get you into a warm bath. Gina!” She called, setting the female at a seat and then rushing towards where Nesta knew were the kitchens, “Get some hot towels and warm up some water and bring it to the room. Don’t dally!”

Nesta watched the plump female disappear behind the door and looked to the other who was now seated at the settee, her head back and her eyes closed.

Her job considered done, Nesta turned to leave, but the female gasped harshly, clenching her fists to her stomach. When the Illyrian looked up again, she zeroed in on her, and Nesta swore she saw agony in her face. Pain and… something worse. Something Nesta wanted to run from. Far and fast away.

“Please find my husband,” She croaked, the words tinged with warning.

Nesta stared at the female, the obligation settling in, and she stepped back with the discomfort of it all.

Nesta didn’t voice her answer as she walked through the doors, as the wind whipped her hair, as the temperature seemed to drop within moments. She didn’t look back at the inn as all of her feelings began to whirl around her once more.

Nesta merely ran.

Far and fast away.

~

When Nesta arrived at the training fields, her hair half-askew, her hands patting at her face to warm herself, no one was there. That made sense though because the training fields were all outside and there was no use fighting when the cold hit worse than any punch. So, Nesta ran to the large shacks, the saunas that she knew were tucked away from sight.

She almost felt it indecent to enter such a place, and the old her would have been thoroughly appalled, but this new Nesta had seen far more of the male body than her previous counterparts, so she simply shrugged her shoulders and pushed open the doors.

They creaked as they moved and Nesta peered inside, cautious that she might see more than what a night of drinking let her heartily accept.

When she saw no one was there, Nesta wanted to scream in frustration.

“You shouldn’t be here,” A rough voice came out from behind her, making her spine stiffen.

The male leaned against the doorway as she turned towards him. His stance casual in his boots and leathers. He didn’t wear any coat, which she thought was arrogant of him when the wind whirred from outside and shook the building.

Kallon’s gaze slid over her and Nesta wanted to back away, the thoughts of Thomas appearing in her mind. He didn’t move from his place though, and Nesta would not give him the satisfaction of cowering.

“I’m looking for your father,” She replied, her words poignant and pernicious. Kallon raised a brow, but his expression marked one of boredom. Nesta’s jaw hurt from how hard she gritted her teeth. “You’re mother is going into labor.”

Kallon seemed to grow taller at the words, his wings rising to block the light of the door. The menacing shadows painted him in full glory. Still, he was not the worst _beast_ she’d seen.

“I think she’s having… complications,” Nesta explained as best she could. Somehow she felt an ache in her chest for the female, her pain leaving a scar where Nesta thought she’d feel nothing.

“She is _not_ my mother,” He glowered. She could hear the solid steps of his boots, one after the next as he angled closer to her. Sharp taps like the pulse she could hear through his chest. “And I don’t really care what happens to the runt.”

Nesta peered up at him, noted the shiny gleam of his dark eyes, the facial hair that stroked up his cheeks, his nose high and pointed. Kallon was too used to be intimidating, she thought, because he walked slowly as if he was a predator.

Nesta was no prey.

“That’s your blood,” she said, a bite to her words. “Your family. Your brother or sister.”

“No blood of mine would ever be tainted by so low of a female.”

Nesta scoffed, her eyes widening with the shock she couldn’t contain. “You’re a real bastard aren’t you?”

“I am not a _bastard_ ,” He announced, stepping in front of her. Nesta had to tilt her head to look into his eyes. “But that _thing_ is as good as one… Didn’t your dog ever tell you? What we do to bastards around here?”

Her fists clenched as he jeered, some fire rising in her chest until she could only hear a soft hum. Her chest ached from keeping it all in, but she willed herself to remain calm, that power in her veins laying unbridled, biding its time. 

“The only bastard I know is standing right in front of me and if the village is ready to throw you to the wolves, please let me know when procession starts.”

Kallon’s gaze turned to liquid ore as his nostrils flared as if he’d start roaring fire, but she merely crossed her arms. Her chin raised defiantly in that _you mean nothing_ look. Nesta had practiced it well.

“You look surprised… Did you think I would be intimidated?” She titled her head lightly and laughed. “Why should I be afraid of _pups_ who can’t see past their own importance?”

She danced away as Kallon stood as rigid as ice, his back so straight she thought he might tip over if the wind decided to blow the roof off. She laid her hand on the door of the empty sauna, the hinges creaking as she moved to shut it.

Kallon remained staring at where she’d been before, his muscles tense and his wings tucked behind his back.

“You should have just told me where your father is,” Nesta mused, the male stiffening at her voice. “it would have saved you some pride at least.”

Nesta didn’t wait for his response as she continued, in search of that lord who deserved a beating for the way he raised his son.

_Gods help the next one._

~

If there was anything that Cassian learned in his time being here, it was that Lord Ovis liked to talk. Not to his family, and certainly not to his comrades, but the sound of his voice must have seemed sweet to his own ears because he never stopped talking.

Cassian sat in the council room with fifteen other Illyrians, and though he knew he was supposed to seem regal and uptight; Cassian didn’t have it in him to pretend he had a stick up his ass for more than five minutes.

_That was more Rhys’s style._

He swallowed down his laugh, imagining what the rest of the Inner Circle were doing right then. Probably not as bored as him, when he wanted to take the pencil in front of him and stab himself in the eye. He doubted they’d let him leave even so.

Cassian mind drifted to Nesta and what _she_ was doing at this moment. He wanted to groan at the thought of her as he shifted in his seat, laying his head on his knuckles. She’d been puffed up and rosy during their argument and infinitely too soft when he’d flown her back to the inn, but she’d been calm at least…

Cassian had been a fool. For so many reasons, but…

_He did say that_. Didn’t he? That he couldn’t understand how her sisters could love her. It was only a few weeks after that that they learned Nesta was drinking more, slumming it with some male or another every night. He’d seen her once. During the day, in the beginning and she’d mostly looked tired. He imagined she wasn’t sleeping, but she looked worse than tired. Like carrying her own bones was too much of a burden and the weight was crushing her.

Cassian wanted to roll down in his seat at the guilt that welled up in his chest. He’d promised her… he promised to protect her. Her family. The people across the wall. Promised her so many things that he never voiced allowed, and not once had he followed through. He’d missed every opportunity.

But she’d promised nothing, and she was beside them all. She’d… protected him.

Cassian blinked away the sting in his eyes.

Just as he was about to sigh in defeat, his thoughts properly stored and tightly locked away, the door flew open. The wood slamming against the walls.

At the commotion, the males stood fast. Lord Ovis maneuvering around the table as his wings brushed back, ready to fight. Cassian remained in his seat, staring at her as the light seemed to wrap around her form.

Nesta didn’t even look at him as she stepped past some of the soldiers, moving through them as if they were stalks of wheat and she had little time for them. She zeroed in on Lord Ovis and he stood tall at her perusal, shock painted on his face as she looked him in the eyes. 

The next words out of her mouth seemed to shock both of them.

“Your wife is having the baby.” Her brows furrowed as she talked, the words rushing out of her. “She went into labor and she’s at the inn.”

At the information, Lord Ovis let out a breath, settling down as he stepped back to his seat. Nesta looked to _him_ when she noticed Lord Ovis beginning to sit, and Cassian didn’t know what to say. She stomped towards the male anyways, fire in her lungs.

“I just said your wife is in labor,” she hissed.

Lord Ovis simply shuffled some papers on his table, muttering to the male next to him to get him some water. Cassian scoffed.

Nesta threw up her hands, “Are all of you this ignorant?”

Cassian could see some of the males shuffle in their seat at the insult, surprise and outrage rolling through the room like thunder. Cassian simply took note of the snow on Nesta’s coat, her face flushed from the cold. He looked to the open door, where the wind chased the snow, roaring out its displeasure.

His gaze hardened at the thought of her running through the storm. 

“She needs you there,” she urged.

Lord Ovis sat back in his seat in lazy arrogance. “That would be improper.”

“Improper my ass! Your wife was standing next to a building in the middle of _this_ storm,” she pointed to the open doorway as some of the other males looked, “she couldn’t even make it up the hill and _I_ helped her there. She asked for you personally, though now I’m wondering why the hell she would when you seem to be good for nothing!”

He watched as he face seemed to turn a darker shade of red, the color rushing down her throat, but Nesta continued, stark, aching mad.

“I’ve been all over this blasted camp for two hours looking for _you._ And you know what?” She asked. “You’re son is shit by the way. You did awful job raising him.”

Lord Ovis blinked blandly, smacking his lips, and yawning faintly. He then turned to look at him, his eyes cruel as he laughed.

“You should learn to control your female,” He jeered. “A leash would do good.”

Cassian couldn’t even hear Nesta’s next words as the anger reached his ears. In a blink, he was there, standing in front of the lord who could use less teeth and maybe one less tongue. He gripped the male’s leathers in his fists and Cassian made him remember why he was the Night Court General Commander.

He reached out a fist, ready to maim, but he felt a sharp tug in his sternum and Cassian looked towards her.

Nesta’s gaze was sharp and focused as she spoke, her voice soft. “There is something wrong with the child.”

At the words, Lord Ovis whipped towards her, brushing off Cassian.

“What did you do _witch_?”

Nesta looked towards him and Cassian nodded his head in reassurance, though he didn’t know what he was asking of her. 

“I felt her pain. I don’t—” she stumbled, shaking her head. “I don’t think…”

“You don’t think what?” Lord Ovis cried.

But Nesta didn’t answer him as he pushed past her, leaving the rest of the males in an uproar as their camp leader braced the storm.

Cassian reached for her as Nesta stood staring at the door, her hand resting on her neck. 

She blinked up at him with thick lashes, before he could touch her and he lowered his hand. Her nose was still red from the few hours trying to find them. Cassian wished there were an easier way to contact each other and made a mental note to ask Amren what she thought could do the trick.

He was about to offer to fly her back, but Nesta closed her eyes, her brows furrowing as if she was in pain. This time, he placed a hand on her shoulder, but she clasped her hand atop his, and gripped it tightly. Her words made chills run down his spine.

“I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

Cassian prayed to the mother that she meant Lord Ovis to the inn. 

~

Cassian heard the high-pitched screams just as Nesta flinched. A small movement that no one would have noticed—that he would not have noticed—If it had not been _her_. Her look made him want to drag her inside, shut all the doors, and block every yell that made it to her ears.

Cassian did none of these things as he looked her over. The skirt of her dress puffed up as Nesta held herself close at the knees from where she sat on the steps to the entrance of that little inn. Her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat. _No scarf,_ he noted. The way she shivered had Cassian resisting the urge to take off his own coat and drape it across her. 

“I’m not going to ask if you’re okay,” He spoke softly, raising his hands in surrender. Always surrender, because he had never been victorious no matter how many battles, he’d won. Cassian could still hear her yells in the back of his mind, and not the ones she spewed just hours before… but of her calling his name. _Cassian! Cassian!_ It echoed. She’d hardly ever said his name then and yet she’d called him, sensing that cauldron’s intent in her gut, in her bones.

Obliterated, he remembered. His comrades had been obliterated, and he had been fine. More than fine. He could still feel that aching sorrow. 

Cassian wondered if Nesta felt it too. Perhaps not the same pain, but she’d wanted to help Ada… kicked and screamed her way through. 

But her next words surprised him, and the space between his brows crinkled in concern. 

“I have nowhere to go,” She blurted out, her eyes blinking slowly as she looked at him. Stray pieces of her hair blew across her face and she swiped it away, tucking it behind her ears until he could see the pointy tip. “I have nowhere to go. I–”

Cassian sat beside her; his wings careful not to brush her form. He could smell the scent of her—lavender soap and crisp winters, fresh air and pine. He watched as she laid her chin in her palm, her knees bouncing quickly as if she were agitated, and maybe she was, because Nesta rarely stumbled on her words.

She didn’t look at him as she continued. Her hand moved to her mouth, her teeth biting down on the nail of her thumb. Cassian watched in awe at the movement. Perhaps without even knowing, she’d shown him another one of her habits and Cassian wrote it down in that seemingly short list of everything he knew about Nesta Archeron. 

“Feyre doesn’t want me there. Your High Lord hates me. I have no prospects or money or a place to say. Amren doesn’t even want to look at me.” Nesta shook her head and Cassian thought he might have seen regret, but it flashed away as soon as it began. “I can’t go back there. So _where_ do I go?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but Nesta jumped up, walking a few paces and then turning back around. Cassian watched the movement with rapt attention.

“I’m back where I started five years.” She whispered, her voice going shrill, her eyes wide and bold enough that he wanted to rush to her and hold her close. A forbidden act that Cassian quickly pushed away. Nesta would never allow his touch. “Starving, and alone in that little cabin.”

“You weren’t alone. You had Elain. Feyre…” 

“What good did that do?” She screeched, lowering her eyes to floor as she shook incessantly. “You know after my mother died; Elain wouldn’t stop crying. Every day she’d cry, and cry and I’d wanted to slap her then. As cruel as that is… Stop crying, I’d wanted to say, you’re not the one dead.”

Nesta clenched her eyes shut, her fists rolling into balls. Her lips curled in a grimace.

“And Feyre… Feyre wouldn’t stop asking questions as young as she was… What can I do? How should we fix this? How can we help father? What can we sell? As if I did not spend so much time asking the same.” Her gaze hardened, and Cassian imagined bricks forming around a small girl. As young as Feyre had been when she’d hunted, maybe younger still. Wall after wall began to be built and Cassian saw Nesta in there, pounding at the bricks as she spoke.

“But you know what was worse?” 

Cassian stayed very still as she zeroed in on him. Her eyes-tinged red. 

“We spent so much time trying to help my father, and he still ruined it all.” Nesta covered her eyes with her palms, and Cassian saw Nesta crawl over him in his memory. The softness of her body covering all of his pain, shielding him from anymore. _They’d go together._ Not because they deserved a good end, but because they wanted to hold on to something that was good and decent. What had she held onto when she was merely a child? What had she kept? 

“I can’t forgive him for what he did.” She admitted softly, darkness seeping into those bitter blues. And maybe that was the problem in all of this—that they had wanted her to forgive—to forget. But Nesta could not forget and neither could Cassian when all he thought about was his comrades dying and a soft kiss in the middle of a battlefield.

Cassian’s chest felt heavy and he swallowed so she wouldn’t hear how rough his voice had gotten.

“Then don’t,” He replied. Nesta looked up at him, kicking up the snow with her boot as she looked him over, seemingly shocked that he did not berate her or make her see a new point of view. If that’s what she was hoping for, she wasn’t getting it from him.

“Don’t,” Cassian repeated, shaking his head. The conviction rising in his words. “You’re your own person… do whatever you want to do. Forgive your father. Don’t forgive him. Be mad. Don’t be mad. Leave to Velaris or stay here with me or… leave to who knows where.” 

“I already told you about the feasibility of leaving.” 

“No, you listed all the reasons it would be hard to do so. You are not in that cabin, starving and alone. You are not alone here, Nesta. And if Velaris is not where you want to be, then I will take you somewhere else. If you want me to go collect things from your father’s house and sell them I will. If you need money, I have that.”

Fuck Rhys and Feyre and the rules. Fuck Elain, too, and himself. Fuck them all, he raged. Fuck them all for making her feel like she had no choices.

Nesta’s shoulders rolled back as she straightened, her arms crossing in defiance. “They’ll never let you help me.”

“I don’t need their permission,” Cassian retorted, suddenly angry at the female in front of him, though he didn’t understand why. He stepped to her slowly, closing his eyes as he breathed in the harsh winter air.

When he blinked, she was in front of him. Her eyes the color of pale skies, bright and filled with caution.

“I want you…” he breathed, swallowing his apprehension, “I want you to find happiness in things. I enjoy you angry, yes, that’s true.” 

She scoffed, but that darkness that had hovered over her these months, that had trailed behind her like some veil covering her golden hair, began to lift and Cassian saw her… Maybe just a small part of her, but a part he wanted to get to know. To memorize. 

“I don’t think you’ll ever be less annoyed with me and I hope you don’t, but I don’t want this… hostility between us anymore. This… _mountain_ we can’t get over.”

“I am not your friend,” she reminded him softly, her lips pursed and pink. He knew what she meant. 

“I’d do it for anyone,” Cassian reminded _her._

Nesta raised a brow. “I won’t make my decision now.”

“I didn’t expect you to.”

“But when I do—”

“I’ll be there,” Cassian promised.

_I’ll be there always._

Cassian promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well some things had to progress in this fic or nothing would have progressed so Cassian and Nesta have reached an understanding of some sorts. It’s a slow process who knows what will happen next (shrugs)
> 
> Unfortunately/Not so unfortunately, I’m stopping for a bit, for a week or two to finish the last part of the Nesta’s Love is Quiet trilogy. I have no idea how that’s going to go, since I abhor endings, but it will be the first fic I’ve ever finished so that’ll be fun!
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter, but if not please don’t tell me lol. 
> 
> Kudos and comments!!!!
> 
> Happy Reading!

**Author's Note:**

> This is just me playing with characters and themes and storylines because I’ve thought about this book A LOT in the last two years. So, I’m just here to keep it interesting! Also I just love writing Nesta as annoyed and inconvenienced about everything. It’s fun :D
> 
> Comment and Kudos always welcome :D
> 
> Tumblr: VidalinaV


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